


My Name Was Safest in Your Mouth

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Femslash, Background Relationships, Background Slash, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Community: hd_erised, Creature Fic, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, HP: EWE, M/M, Magical Biology, Magical Theory, Major Illness, Masturbation, Mates, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-06 19:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12824382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Harry didn’t ask for Malfoy to walk into his shop after so many years. But one event leads to another, and soon they’re scrambling to help Hermione find the solution to one of the most insidious viruses the wizarding world has ever seen. To make matters worse, Malfoy’s hiding something, and Harry really wants to kiss him—except Malfoy doesn’t date. Ever.





	My Name Was Safest in Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeitgeistic (faire_weather)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/gifts).



> So many thanks to so many people! Thank you to B for the beta/cheeread/brit-picking, D, M, J, and S for cheerleading and helping with inspiration, and a huge thank you to the mods for being absolutely wonderful in everything they’ve done to run this fest. <3
> 
> Zeitgeistic – I was incredibly excited to write for you, as I’ve read several of your works and loved every one of them. Your likes were a lot of fun to work with, and I tried to add as many of them in there as I could - I hope I’ve done it all justice! Happy Holidays and Happy Erised! 
> 
> Title from Camila Cabello’s “I Have Questions.”

As many things in Harry’s life do, it all starts with a dream.

 

Harry stands next to Draco, looking out the window of the hospital room. For some reason, neither the location nor his companion strikes him as strange in the moment, and he looks to the man next to him, tracing over the blond hair and pointy features that he’s—somehow?—come to know so well.

“Potter—if we do this, you know what will happen, right?”

“Yes,” Harry says, even though he actually has no idea what Draco’s talking about. But he’s pretty sure this is a dream, so he’s going to go with it.

Something tells him that everything will be all right.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco says, turning to him suddenly, but he has a smile tugging at his lips as he looks into Harry’s eyes.

Harry snorts. “Pot, kettle.”

Draco rolls his eyes in a way that feels almost fond, turning away again. “Sure, Potter.”

A warm sensation spreads through Harry’s body, starting oddly at his palm and then spreading through his wrist, up his arm, and straight into his heart.

He looks down. Draco is holding his hand.

 

He has no recollection of the dream when he wakes.

xXx

“Morning, Mr. Potter!” Esther calls from the till, as Harry hurries into his shop, soaking wet, just in time for opening.

“Hullo, Esther,” he waves, spelling himself dry from the rain and cursing the fact that he lost his umbrella a week ago and hadn’t bothered to try and find it since. Except—hang on, isn’t that it, right over there behind the counter?

Triumphantly, he goes to grab the umbrella from where it’d fallen in the dusty corner between the wall and the filing cabinet. He casts a quick Scourgify and then carefully hangs it on the wall. “Thought I’d lost this,” he says, grinning at Esther. Then he does a double-take. “Wait—wasn’t Seb supposed to open today?”

“Um, yes,” Esther says, “but he, er. Isn’t feeling too well?”

Harry snorts, shrugging out of his rain jacket and hanging it on the hook with his umbrella. “You mean he drank a bit too much last night,” he says, and Esther hangs her head sheepishly and nods.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t get your robes all knotted up about it. Just have him Owl me beforehand next time, if you could.”

“Yes, sir!” Esther says, brightening back into her usual perky self.

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Honestly, Esther, you don’t have to call me ‘sir’. I’m not a Hogwarts Professor, you know.” Not to mention that it reminds him of Snape, which is something he’d rather not think about.

“Aye aye, sir,” Esther says cheekily, grinning as she bends down to count the till.

Harry shakes his head, amused, and gives the shop a brief onceover. He needn’t have bothered—it’s pristine as usual when Esther opens. She’s an excellent employee, she and Seb both. They’re twins who just sat their NEWTS a couple of years ago, and they rent the flat above the shop as well as running the storefront. Esther tends to be a little tidier than Seb, but Seb is excellent at noting when a charm on a product has gone a little wonky. Harry will be sad to see the day one or both of them leaves the shop.

He bids Esther goodbye, turning and pushing through the curtain that separates the store area from the back of the shop. This is where he truly spends most of his time—it’s where they keep their inventory, on neat shelves that Harry would never been able to organize without Esther’s (and a little bit of Hermione’s) help, and it’s also where Harry does the bulk of his charmwork.

He’s been running his charms shop for a little over two years now. He and Ron and Hermione celebrated its anniversary just a month ago, in their traditional ‘we’re busy adults and don’t have time to get absolutely wasted during the workweek’ way of going out to their regular haunt and ordering nothing more than a bottle of champagne, then leaving for bed at ten-o’clock.

He flits his eyes over the stock as he does every morning, making a mental note that the self-scrubbing pots will need to be restocked soon, and that he’s going to have to order some more chairs for his Easy-Shrink line. Oh, and he seems to be rather low on unbreakable dishes, which is funny because he doesn’t seem to remember having sold quite that many this week. He almost walks back into the shopfront to ask Esther about it, but just as he reaches the curtain, he hears the bell that signals their first customer of the morning and decides to let it go for now. Better for her to be open for customer questions than to be bothered with Harry’s spotty memory.

He settles into his usual morning routine, which consists of first making himself a pot of tea and then pulling out the supplies he needs for the items he replenishes daily. These tend to be part of his Disposables line, which he never expected to be as wildly popular as it’s become, but he supposes that it’s because everything in it is considerably cheaper than his normal wares. Things like five-shot-only magical cameras and his all-body cleaning spray had flown off the shelves when he first started offering them, and they’d been out of stock almost permanently until Harry finally had the sense to start ordering the base materials in bulk.

The bell rings again, then again as their usual bunch of morning customers starts to trickle in. He hears Esther pipe out, “Welcome to The Charmery!” and he grins at her peppiness before tuning out the sounds of the shop and starting on his own work for the day.

He loses himself in the rhythm of casting charms, doing several batches of items at once, then testing each one in turn and putting them on their proper shelves. His usual charms go quickly, as he knows them by heart at this point, but once he reaches the dwindling stock of automated children’s toothbrushes that he spelled onto his to-do list half a week ago, he has to lug out his big binder full of charms recipes.

Flipping through the binder, he squints at his headings and thinks with mild amusement at how horrified Hermione would be at the complete lack of organization in his notes. He finds the right page a moment later, clearing some of the clutter from his workbench and setting the book down next to the box of regular Muggle toothbrushes he ordered in preparation for the restock. He’s just skimming the directions he jotted down on what order to perform the charms in when Esther pokes her head through the curtain.

“Oi, Mr. Potter, there’s a customer with a charms question. Should I send him back here?”

“Sure,” Harry says, sitting up. He casts a brief, hopeless look at the messiness of his workspace, but there’s no time to make an attempt to clean it up before someone steps into the back room.

Harry only gets a glimpse of a shock of blond hair and an admittedly rather fit body before he realizes that it’s Draco Malfoy.

Well, fuck.

“What the hell—Potter?” Malfoy says, looking offended, as if Harry’s the one who just randomly walked into Malfoy’s life instead of the other way around. “I didn’t know _you_ ran this store.”

Here they go again. “It was all over the _Prophet_ ,” Harry says shortly. “I put out advertisements. What, did you want me to send you an Owl?”

Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “I can hardly go a day without the media shoving all of the great Harry Potter’s fantastical deeds in my face. You can’t expect me to actually pay attention to all that rot.” He still hasn’t moved from his spot just inside the curtain, as if he’s so affronted at being in the same room with Harry that he won’t dare move closer.

God. To think they once had kissed—

No.

He’s not going to think about that.

Harry huffs an exasperated sigh. “What do you want, Malfoy?” he asks, pushing his stool back from his worktable as he stands.

Malfoy’s lips thin. “I have a problem with one of your charms,” he says, slipping his hand into the pocket of his robes. Harry notes with interest that the St. Mungo’s insignia is etched onto Malfoy’s right breast pocket—he must work with Hermione then, although the robes aren’t the horrid lime green color like Healers wear. Instead, they’re a much nicer shade of pale blue, but Harry doesn’t have time to think on what profession that might indicate before Malfoy pulls out a silver hairbrush.

Harry immediately recognizes it as one of his own stock, one with a rather complex Detangler charm on it. This particular brush has a pretty pattern etched into the silver—it’s one of the first products that Harry created when he first began dabbling in decorative Transfiguration, and he feels a small spark of pride at the fact that Malfoy of all people purchased it.

“This was a present for my mother’s birthday a few months ago, but I think the charm is botched.” He twists the brush around and holds it toward Harry, handle-first, so Harry can see the thin cracks running through the silver. It’s an obvious indication of a charm gone wrong, and immediately Harry’s mind starts twisting with theories on what might’ve happened. “She said it was fine for the first couple months she used it,” Malfoy continues, “but then one night she picked it up and it shattered. Neither she nor I could figure out how to fix it, so I decided to take it back to the shop. Figures it was your shoddy charmwork,” Malfoy scoffs.

Harry scowls, because of _course_ Malfoy would make that assumption. He snatches the brush from Malfoy’s hand and examines it, picking up his wand and casting a couple of diagnostic spells. “This has been tampered with,” he says after a moment, furrowing his brow. “There’s an extra layer of magic that’s not supposed to be there.”

Malfoy crosses his arms. “Are you accusing me of tampering, Potter?”

“No,” Harry shoots back, rolling his eyes. “I’m not making any accusations, unlike you. If anything I’d say it feels like House Elf magic.”

He knows this because occasionally people will come to him with questions about spellwork and charms, or they’ll bring in a broken item they want fixed, just like Malfoy has now. Generally Harry shoots them in George’s direction, since George knows a ton more about charm theory than Harry does. But Harry’s well-versed enough to recognize House Elf magic when he sees it, especially since his general specialty is in household charms.

Malfoy squints down at the hairbrush. “Oh,” he says, lips pursing. “I guess one of the Elves… well, whatever. Can you fix it or not, Potter? I’ll pay.”

Bristling at Malfoy’s tone, Harry nonetheless takes the time to cast another spell on the brush, one that illuminates the twisting strands of magic so that he can visualize exactly where the House Elf magic is interfering. This is actually a quick fix, one he’s done before, so it only takes him a minute to remove the charm that had gone askew and cast a Reparo on the silver. Then he adds a sealant charm for good measure, one he’d finally devised a few weeks ago to keep incidents like this from happening.

“Here,” he says finally, jabbing the brush toward Malfoy. “Take it. I don’t want your money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Malfoy says, taking the brush and sliding it back into his pocket. “You’re running an establishment, aren’t you? Do you let all of your customers cheat you out of work?”

Harry huffs a sigh, thinking privately that he would rather Malfoy just leave and be done with this all. But he shrugs and says, “It’ll be ten sickles then,” and watches as Malfoy digs around in a different pocket, pulling out a pouch of coins and rifling through it.

At least Malfoy’s nice to look at, all long lines and slender muscles, a pointiness in his face that has softened with age—and Harry swore to himself after what happened several years ago that he would stop staring at Malfoy all the time, especially now, since Malfoy seems to have gotten into the habit of wearing robes that are so form-fitting that they should be illegal.

But it’s not like Harry’s ever been able to help himself where Malfoy is concerned.

The worst part is that there’s a part of Harry that still wants—something. Wants Malfoy to at least mention what happened back then, to acknowledge that they’d once been—not friends, but more than acquaintances, he thinks. But as much as Harry wants him to fucking say something, Malfoy doesn’t breathe a word of it, instead avoiding Harry like a Spattergroit epidemic and barely speaking when they do meet.

“Here,” Malfoy says, holding out a handful of coins. Harry goes to take them, but one drops to the ground in the process, and both of them lean down to reach for it—

Their hands touch, and suddenly there’s a pulse of magic flowing up Harry’s arm, spreading quickly over his body and making him feel very, very warm. But even more alarming is the sudden, cloying urge to press their bodies together, to climb on top of Malfoy and kiss him, touch him, maybe even fuck him—shite. Is Malfoy casting some sort of lust spell?

But when he looks up at Malfoy’s face, Malfoy’s staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, just as surprised as Harry is.

And fuck, Malfoy’s so attractive.

Harry hates that he’s even _thinking_ that, but he can’t help it, not when this warm pulsing magic spreading through his body, not with Malfoy staring at him like that.

For one languid second, Harry lets himself finally think about that time, years ago, when they’d been in the broom closet, heated mouths and strong hands and—

Harry swallows the memory away. He doesn’t need to be thinking about that now.

It was a long time ago.

“Potter—what…” Malfoy breathes, but then a look of realization passes over his face. “Fuck.” All at once he stands and bolts away, dropping his coin pouch in the process, coins scattering all over the floor in his wake.

“Malfoy, your money—”

“Keep the change,” Malfoy says, walking out through the curtain without looking back. Mere seconds afterwards, Harry hears the tinkle of the bell on the shop door. Malfoy’s gone.

It’s only when Esther pops her head in a minute later that Harry realizes he’s still kneeling on the floor. “What happened back here?” Esther asks, looking like she’s ready to gossip.

But unfortunately for her, Harry’s not sure he even knows the answer to that. He shakes his head, standing and picking up his wand so that he can Summon all of the coins back into the pouch. “Dunno. Malfoy’s just… odd, I guess.”

“Oh, you know him?” Esther asks.

Harry’s throat feels a little dry, and he coughs. “You could say that. We were in the same class at Hogwarts. We weren’t friends, though.”

Lovers, maybe, but only that once.

God.

“Oh, I see,” Esther says. Then a sly look appears on her face. “He’s fit though, don’t you think?”

Harry almost drops the coin pouch again. “No! No. And anyway, he’s too old for you,” he says, flustered, and Esther snorts.

“He’s not too old for you-u,” she says in a sing-songy tone, and then she darts back into the front of the shop before Harry can say a word.

Damn Malfoy. Always mucking up Harry’s life. At least Harry won’t be running into him any time soon—there aren’t any Ministry events on his calendar for months, and at any rate, he doubts Malfoy will step foot into his store again.

He pushes down the thought that maybe he _wants_ Malfoy to come back, sighing and going back to his charmwork.

xXx

“All good, Seb?” Harry says a week later, as he walks into the shop on his way back from lunch with Ron. The shop is empty, as it usually is during the post-lunchtime lull when Harry takes his break.

“Yep,” Seb says, straightening from where he’d been leaning on the counter. “Oh, but some bloke came looking for you while you were out. He wouldn’t give me his name, though? Kinda weird, if you ask me.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, already halfway convinced he knows who it was. “Yeah? What’d he look like?”

Seb scratches his chin. “Uhh, really blond, about your height. A bit angry-looking, if you ask me.”

Snorting, Harry leans down to pick up a set of self-cleaning gloves that’d fallen on the floor. He hangs them back on the shelf, idly straightening the second row of gloves beside it. “Sounds about right.”

“Who is it?” Seb asks, mild interest showing on his face.

“Just someone I went to Hogwarts with,” Harry says, waving it off. “Wonder why he was here?”

“Don’t ask me,” Seb says with a shrug. “Oh, hey—can you show me how to charm that new light-thingy you came up with? The Muggle one?”

Harry laughs. “It’s a lightbulb,” he says. It’s not _really_ , since it has no filament and is powered purely by magic, but it definitely resembles one with its bulb-like shape. Harry likes to think that it’s safer and less finicky than torches or candles. He’s dubbed it the Magi-bulb, and it’s certainly sold well enough to make the silly name worth it. “Let me just get the supplies and I’ll show you. That is, if you promise to send me an Owl next time you’re too hungover to work instead of just sending Esther in.” He adds a wink to let Seb know he’s not actually angry, and Seb grins and nods sheepishly.

He enjoys working with Seb, especially when things are slow in the shop. But even as he pulls his box of filament-less bulbs over and demonstrates how to charm one to light, his mind strays to Malfoy, stuck on the fact that for some unknown reason, he’d come back to see him.

xXx

“Oi, mate! Over here!” Ron gives a large wave from across the room, and Harry grins and goes to sit in his usual spot at their table in the Leaky. Pub nights with all of their friends are a rare treat nowadays. They used to go weekly, back in the first couple years after Hogwarts, but it slowly became harder and harder to get even half of their usual group together. Now they’re lucky if they can make an event of it once a month, so Harry’s always happy when they do. He loves his shop, really, and it’s not like he doesn’t see Ron and Hermione—he’s living with them, after all. But it can be hard to find time to hang out with everyone else, especially now that they’ve all got adult lives to worry about.

And even with Ron and Hermione constantly at his side, sometimes Harry still feels lonely.

“Hullo, Harry,” Hermione says, and a chorus of assorted ‘hullos’ echoes across the table from their small group. Harry nods his own greeting and gratefully accepts the pint Hermione pushes toward him across the sticky surface of the wood.

He settles into his chair and waits for conversation to pick back up so he can choose to join one or the other: Ron and Luna are deep in a discussion centered around proving the existence of the wrinkled tinselflitters she claims to have discovered while she was away last month, while Hermione, Blaise, and Neville are debating some recent political decree that Harry decides to stop listening to before he gets dragged anywhere near it.

So he’ll be joining neither conversation then, he thinks wryly as he takes a sip of his pint.

He looks down the table to the collection of empty chairs clustered around the far end, friends who have come and gone throughout the years they’ve been meeting like this. Seamus and Dean rarely come out to pub night anymore, ever since they adopted their daughter Annie, a distant relation of Seamus’ mum who was orphaned in the war. Similarly, Angelina can’t drink now that she’s pregnant, so she and George have begged off coming out for the past few months.

And Ginny—well, Ginny and Pansy are just late. As usual. Ginny often stays after practice to help give extra instruction to the Harpies’ Reserve Chasers, and it’s not unheard of for Pansy to get so caught up in writing her gossip articles for her up-and-coming magazine _Which Witch?_ that she forgets she’s supposed to leave work at a reasonable hour on Fridays.

“You’re thinking hard for someone who’s supposed to be done with his workday,” Blaise remarks from across the table, an eyebrow raised. “Anything on your mind?”

Harry laughs. “Just thinking, I guess. Wondering where the rest of us have gotten to.”

“Ah,” Blaise says, sliding his arm around Neville’s shoulders. And _that_ had been strange, when they first started dating—Harry didn’t know Blaise well back at Hogwarts, at least until their eighth year. But even still, it was hard to reconcile Blaise’s smooth-talking exterior with humble, kind Neville.

But then, Neville did change during the war, as they all had. He’s less timid now by far, more sure of himself, and Harry’s glad of that. Neville had spent most of their eighth year at school planning to start up a Herbology company with a focus in growing supplies for Potions merchandising, and Blaise became an unofficial financial advisor fairly early on.

And somewhere in there, they fell in love.

They married only a couple years after the company opened its doors. The wedding was the first Harry had been to of friends his age, which would have been eye-opening enough even if it wasn’t coincidentally when Ginny first hooked up with Pansy—which Harry only knows because he’d been unlucky enough to walk in on them, God.

Just then, as if Harry had Summoned her with his thoughts, Ginny slides into the seat next to him with Pansy close on her heels. “Hello everyone!” Ginny says, setting her usual glass of firewhisky on the rocks down on the table. “Sorry we’re late.”

“As usual,” Ron pipes up, and Ginny rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“Well, we wouldn’t be, but we ran into Draco on the way,” says Pansy, and Harry startles at the name.

“Did you?” he asks, trying and failing to sound disinterested.

“Yes,” drawls a voice behind him. “They did.”

Harry whips his head around, and there he is.

Malfoy.

He’s holding himself awkwardly, arms crossed, wearing the same blue work robes he wore when he visited the shop a week ago. Before Harry has the chance to even think of saying something, Malfoy speaks again. “Can I talk to you, Potter?” he asks, jerking his thumb over at the empty corner of the pub.

“Er. Sure?” Harry stands, not without noticing the bewildered look Ron is throwing at him, and follows Malfoy over into the dim corner. But Malfoy takes an oddly long time to say something, looking more nervous than anything, and Harry finally has to prompt him to speak. “All right. What is it?”

“I wanted to say thank you for the repair you made the other day,” Malfoy says, leaning casually against the wall. “I suppose I underestimated your charms skills, earlier.”

“Oh, er,” Harry says, caught off guard. He clears his throat. “You’re welcome, then,” he continues, fairly sure that isn’t the only reason Malfoy dragged him over here.

But Malfoy doesn’t continue, instead simply looking at Harry, and there’s no aversion in his eyes but there’s no friendliness there either. Some kind of interest, maybe.

“Um, Malfoy?” Harry asks. “Was there anything else?”

Malfoy starts. “Sorry,” he says, blinking and looking away. “I suppose I just wanted you to know that this isn’t entirely out of the blue, me showing up here,” he says, gesturing over at their table, where Harry expects they’re busy gossiping about him and Malfoy, _Merlin_.

“It’s not?” Harry asks, because it certainly seems out of the blue to him.

“No,” Malfoy says. “Pansy’s been nagging at me to come to one of these things for months, actually. She keeps complaining about missing me, and if I want to visit with her, that means visiting with Ginevra as well—who isn’t so bad, actually—but with Ginevra comes you and Granger and your whole slew of friends.” He lets out a sigh. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I think Pansy would be rather angry if you and I got smashed and started a duel later on, you know?”

Harry lets out an unexpected chuckle at the thought, although there’s a very small part of him that wonders what would actually happen if they got smashed, if they would fight or if they would maybe kiss instead. But God, no, that wouldn’t happen, would it? Malfoy barely wants anything to do with him.

“No doubt everyone would be angry if we fought,” Harry says, forcing a small smile onto his face even though most of the humor has left him. “’Cept maybe Ron. He’d probably join in.”

“Probably,” Malfoy says, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “Anyway, what I’m saying is—shall we make some sort of truce? For gatherings like this, at least. I don’t fancy having to be on my toes the whole time I’m out with Pansy, and well… she’s been spending most of her time with you lot, so. If we could agree not to hex each other, that would be grand.”

And for the briefest of moments, Malfoy actually looks lonely, maybe even as lonely as Harry is.

Harry is suddenly caught up in wondering exactly who Malfoy hangs out with these days, if he has friends he visits weekly or even someone to share a bed with. Maybe neither of those is true, if Malfoy’s expression is anything to go by.

But his proposition does sound reasonable enough, so Harry nods in agreement. “Okay,” he says, holding his hand out to shake. Then he takes a breath, looks Malfoy in the eye, and says, “Like eighth year, right?”

Malfoy stares at Harry for a second, his mouth dropping open, and then Harry knows with sudden certainty that Malfoy is thinking about the kiss, about that dumb game, being paired together, snogging until they were both breathless—

But Malfoy doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead he reaches for Harry’s hand, and Harry wonders why there’s a small tinge of fear in his eyes—and then Harry remembers the strange, warm feeling that came over them the last time they’d touched. Malfoy’s scared of it, for some reason.

Except when Malfoy’s palm touches his, nothing happens. At least, nothing except the tingling feeling of longing that runs along Harry’s spine, but he’s fairly sure that that’s his own fault. They shake firmly. “Like eighth year,” Malfoy says, his eyes shuttering over the vulnerability that had lain in his expression only a moment ago.

Harry looks at him then, at the slight shimmer in his work robes that brings out the silver in his eyes, at the way his lips look so soft, at the way Malfoy’s holding onto his hand just a second longer than Harry would’ve expected. And Malfoy is staring back at him just as intently.

Harry really wants to kiss him.

But before he can even think of some sort of way to make that happen, Malfoy let's go, pulling away and turning back toward the table. “Come on, Potter,” he says, already walking away.

Deep down, Harry wants to object, to make him stay there in the corner of the bar so they can finally fucking discuss this—this _thing_ that’s between them. But Malfoy’s already gone. So he follows Malfoy back to the table and sits down in his chair, picking up his glass and downing a good portion of his beer in one gulp.

To his surprise, instead of everyone at the table badgering Harry and Malfoy about what they’d been discussing, the subject of conversation has moved on to Hermione’s current project at St. Mungo’s. Ron does raise his eyebrows questioningly at Harry from across the table, but Harry merely shrugs, and Ron drops it at that.

“I can’t really say too much about specific patients. Healer confidentiality and all that,” Hermione says, sounding serious. “But we had quite a few people showing up today with really awful symptoms.”

“Like what? No one’s died, have they?” Neville asks, playing with his pint glass.

Hermione’s mouth twists. “No, but dying wouldn’t be all that much worse.”

Ron raises his eyebrows. “How can you be worse off than dead? I mean, unless Dementors are involved or somethi—” He cuts off sharply, eyes widening as they flick down the table to Malfoy. It’s public knowledge that Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to life in Azkaban after the war, and the implications of Ron’s words thicken the tension in the air. “Sorry,” Ron says, turning to Malfoy. “Even your dad doesn’t deserve that, I guess.”

But instead of seeming offended by it all like Harry half-expects him to be, Malfoy just shakes his head. “Whatever, Weasley. Don’t worry about it,” he says, and he sounds like he actually means it.

“Oh, uh. All right, then,” Ron says, looking faintly shocked. Harry can’t help but glance back over at Malfoy, because yeah, they have a truce going on, but Harry honestly didn’t expect Malfoy to stay as calm as he just did.

Although, now that he thinks of it, Malfoy wasn’t as horrible as Harry expected during their eighth year either.

It seems like Malfoy really has changed. Not enough to make him any less of a bristly prick, but certainly for the better.

Hermione takes a breath, shattering the tension in the air, and continues on. “I think there are a lot of things worse than death, personally. But this one’s particularly devastating for most people,” she says, and then she looks down at the table, worry lining her expression. “Preliminary diagnostics have shown that these patients have some sort of virus—and it’s causing magical core damage.”

Down the table, Neville gasps, and Ginny lets out an ‘Oh, Merlin.’ Harry glances furtively around the table, noticing that everyone suddenly looks a little more somber. “Sorry—what does that mean, in practice?” Harry asks, feeling a little clueless.

“It means you can’t do magic anymore, Potter,” Pansy says dryly. “And it’s not just casting spells, at least if the damage is bad enough. I’ve heard stories of people who can’t even see magical creatures any longer, or who get caught by Muggle-repelling charms just like a Muggle would.”

“That’s bloody awful,” Harry says, eyes widening. Briefly, he tries to think of a life without magic, one where he could no longer cast spells or fly a broom. He’d have to close his shop—hell, he would never be able to work in the Wizarding World again. And with the Muggle-repelling charms in effect too, he wouldn’t be able to get into Diagon on his own, much less see Hogwarts again. A shudder ripples down his spine at the thought, and beside him, Luna frowns.

Hermione nods in agreement. “It’s worse than being a Squib, psychologically. Magical core damage may not kill you, but it can very well drive you mad from the isolation it creates alone.”

“Blimey, I can imagine,” says Ron, his eyes wide, and Blaise lets out a slow whistle.

“Sounds terrifying,” Neville says, a furrow in his brow.

“It is,” Hermione agrees. “It’s incredibly hard to catch, too—there aren’t symptoms until the magical core damage has already started, but you’re contagious for days beforehand. And—” She cuts off, shaking her head with a morose expression. “And no one has any idea how to stop it.”

Harry widens his eyes in surprise at the uncertainty in her tone. There aren’t often cases that have Hermione this stumped. She started her career in the Janus Thickey Ward with a specialty in memory loss, a decision she’d made right after that awful trip to Australia—the one during eighth year, where she went to recover her parents’ memories and realized it wasn’t working. Harry can remember long, terrible nights of sitting with her as she cried in the common room, Ron holding her in attempt to provide some sort of comfort that never really worked. That trip left the three of them with a rather hopeless feeling that lasted for what felt like forever. Hermione threw herself into her Healing research as soon as they left Hogwarts, and surprisingly, Ron did the same with his Auror training. But the nagging feeling of uselessness only intensified Harry’s urge to leave the DMLE behind almost as soon as he got there, exacerbated by mounds of paperwork and endless sneers from older Aurors who thought his ego needed to be taken down a notch. Harry left the force barely a year later.

But Hermione, being Hermione, had worked endlessly until she finally figured out what was wrong with her parents. She dug in deep into the roots of Muggle biology until she came up with an explanation to what was happening in the very cells of her parents’ brains, and then it was only a matter of time before she was able to create and test the spells she needed to return their memories to them.

And she’d caused a medical revolution. Her coworkers at St. Mungo’s had been distrustful of her methods at first, because even though the war was over, varying levels of anti-Muggle sentiment still remained. But time and time again, Hermione proved that her new kinds of spellwork were undeniably effective. It helped that at that point, Muggle ideology had finally started seeping further into Wizarding culture, and eventually Hermione was moved from the Janus Thickey Ward to a position where she could be appointed wherever she was needed.

She’d found solutions to some of the most difficult illnesses that St. Mungo’s had seen to date, and Ron and Harry had never been prouder of her.

But as clever as Hermione is, there are some cases she hasn’t been able to crack. Like Neville’s parents, tortured into madness. She tried and tried for the longest time to coax them back to health, until Neville sat down with her and told her that it was all right, that she could stop trying now, that she should focus on patients with more hopeful outlooks than Alice and Frank Longbottom.

And she did. It’s been over seven years since they left Hogwarts, and already she’s been awarded multiple (additional) Order of Merlins for her services to the wizarding world.

Which goes to show how worrying it is that Harry hasn’t seen Hermione look so stressed about a case since she’d worked with the Longbottoms.

That alone is enough to make him extremely nervous.

Malfoy finally breaks the silence in the air, leaning forward to look over at Hermione. “Is this the group of patients they put down in the new ward? The quarantined one?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hermione says, but then her eyebrows crease. “Shouldn’t you have been debriefed?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Potions researchers don’t get notified about these sorts of things. Our group has to hear everything through the gossip mill.”

Hermione wrinkles her nose at that, looking as if she’s only just holding herself back from complaining about the hospital’s organizational structure. “That’s not very helpful to you, is it?”

“Everything is on a need to know basis,” Malfoy says, expression briefly mocking as he mimics whatever hospital official laid down that decree. “We don’t really need to know all the particulars to make our potions, or so we’re told. I’m of the opinion that if this thing is as contagious as you’re saying it is, it certainly would have been nice to get a memo about.”

“Outrageous,” Hermione mutters, pulling a pad of Muggle sticky notes from her bag and scribbling something down on them. “Next thing they’ll be saying that Mungo’s employees are impervious to disease.”

Next to Hermione, Ron blanches. “Wait,” he says, leaning slightly away from her. “We can’t catch this thing from you, can we?”

Hermione laughs. “Not from working at the hospital, no,” she says, shoving the pad back in her purse. “Healers can still get sick, obviously, but we have all sorts of safeguards in place while we’re working so that we don’t carry pathogens from the patients. There was a whole unit on the rise of safety techniques in Healing during our History of Magic class in fourth year, you should know that.”

A couple of them nod as if she knows exactly what Hermione’s talking about, but Ron says, “Oh, yeah, right,” flashing Harry a sheepish grin. Neither of them had ever paid attention in that class.

“But we could catch it, right?” Luna asks, and her usually unflappable expression has transformed into a troubled one—Harry might be imagining it, but her radish earrings seem like they’re drooping. “Not necessarily from you, but from anyone out there who has it?”

“Yes—although, actually, I forgot to mention,” Hermione says, brow furrowing. “You most likely couldn’t catch it, and neither could Harry and I. See, we’re not quite sure if this is an absolute or not, but, well.” She frowns, as if what she’s going to say could be potentially incendiary. “Everyone who’s gotten sick so far happens to be a Pureblood.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Ron says, eyes wide.

“No way,” Neville says, brow furrowing, and Blaise rests a soothing hand on his shoulder. “That’s mad.”

Harry takes a quick survey of the table—over half of them are Pureblood, he realizes, heart sinking. Merlin, if this thing starts infecting more people, barely any of them will be safe. It’s rather terrifying.

“Unfortunately, that’s how it looks like it’s turning out,” Hermione says, eyes morose. “And we have no idea how much of the population it’s already affected.”

Blaise wrinkles his nose. “Well _that’s_ reassuring,” he says, and then he pushes his chair back and stands. “You lot are real downers tonight. I’m going to go buy us a round, and you have to promise that we’ll be talking about something more fun when I get back, you hear?”

“Sure, Blaise,” Ginny says, snorting good-naturedly.

Conversation does pick up after that, although it feels slightly subdued until they’re well into their next round of drinks. Then Harry gets dragged into postulating about one of Luna’s new theories about ritual magic with Ron and Hermione, and the rest of the group starts a good-natured Quidditch debate led by Ginny and Pansy. They grow so loud that not for the first time, Hannah Abbott casts a muffling charm at them from the bar, and the group dissolves into laughter.

Harry lets him relax into the faint buzz of tipsiness and the warmth of his friends, listening avidly as Luna starts soliciting votes on what to plant in her new vegetable patch.

He doesn’t even realize Malfoy’s left until the end of the night, when he’s already long gone.

xXx

Harry’s almost not surprised to see Malfoy walk into his workroom a few days later.

Almost.

Malfoy swallows nervously, glancing around the room before finally settling his gaze on Harry. “Potter,” he says, less sharply than Harry would’ve expected.

“Uh… hello,” Harry says, setting down his wand and the Muggle digital clock he’d been trying to fiddle with. “Is the hairbrush working all right?”

Malfoy’s brow furrows. “What hairbrush—oh. My mother’s? Yes, yes, it’s fine.” Then he lapses into awkward silence.

Why is he even here?

Harry takes the moment to study Malfoy, tracing the pale blue line of his robes, the sharp curve of his jaw. Malfoy’s hair is the same length he’d had it at Hogwarts, but it’s no longer slicked back the way Harry’s used to seeing it. It makes him look softer somehow, in a way Harry thinks that he quite likes.

“What?” Malfoy says, crossing his arms. “You’re staring at me funny.”

“You’re the one just bloody standing in my shop,” Harry points out. He’s starting to get annoyed by this—well, by whatever Malfoy’s doing. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“I just thought—” Malfoy starts, and then stops. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

Harry sighs. “No, what is it?” he asks. He hates to admit it, but the look in Malfoy’s eyes has piqued his interest. “I’ve got time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“But you’re working on your—” Malfoy gestures vaguely at the table—“Your thing.”

“Oh, this is mostly for fun,” Harry says, shrugging as he picks up the clock. “I’ve never been able to figure out how to charm electrical things—they always glitch halfway through. So I’m just fiddling, really. I can take a break.”

Malfoy nods slowly. “Fine, then. Well. I suppose I just thought we could… talk?”

Talk.

“Okay,” Harry says, and Malfoy looks at him then with a gaze that jolts straight into Harry’s core for a moment—God.

Harry really, really has been trying not to think about kissing him, ever since pub night, when he’d gone home with his head filled to the brim with thoughts of Malfoy. But now Malfoy’s in his shop again, and his resolve is going straight down the drain.

Kissing him is all Harry can think about when Malfoy looks at him like that.

Fuck.

Harry’s heart briefly skips a beat as he wonders if Malfoy will finally mention it, wonders if Malfoy remembers how it felt when his warm mouth was against Harry’s, remembers skimming his hands over the smooth skin of Harry’s back and making little noises of pleasure as Harry pressed their hips together.

But that’s probably a mere pipe dream. The way Malfoy avoided Harry for years afterward only goes to prove it—Malfoy doesn’t care about that moment, doesn’t care that by that point in their eighth year, they’d even managed to sit down and have conversations that Harry would consider fun, doesn’t care that Harry had basically fucking thrown himself at Malfoy the moment they kissed.

Now they’ve mostly gone back to fighting and pointed glares, and Harry quite thinks he hates it.

Except for now, when Malfoy is staring at him with an expression on his face that rings of both interest and exhaustion. And Harry has to admit that he wants to peel back the layers and expose just what Malfoy’s thinking by coming in here, wanting to talk, staring at Harry like he might even want to kiss him too.

He can’t let Malfoy know that, though. He doesn’t want to make himself vulnerable again, only to be let down—not if Malfoy isn’t even interested. So instead of saying some rubbish that would only give his thoughts away, Harry simply Summons one of the Easy-Shrink chairs from the shelves and taps it with his wand so that it grows to its regular size. “What did you want to talk about?” he asks, levitating the chair so it sits near his own stool.

Malfoy squints at the chair. “Is that thing… stable?”

“Of course it is,” Harry says. But when Malfoy continues to look suspicious, Harry rolls his eyes, standing from his stool and crossing to sit in the chair. It holds his weight, just as he knew it would. “There. You happy?”

“Not particularly, but I’ll sit in the chair now,” Malfoy says, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

Harry lets out an unexpected chuckle as he stands and moves back to his stool. Malfoy is kind of funny. Sometimes. “So,” he says, eyes trailing over Malfoy as he sits primly in the chair. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Malfoy pointedly turns and looks at the curtain that separates the shop from the back room. Harry picks up his wand and casts a quick Muffliato, and Malfoy relaxes just the tiniest bit, turning to face Harry again.

“It’s nothing too exciting,” Malfoy says, steepling his fingers, expression neutral. “I’ve decided that I might come back to pub night with Pansy in the future, and I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything… prohibitive between us before I do so.”

Prohibitive. Like the fact that they’ve kissed, and Malfoy won’t even mention it.

When Harry says nothing, shocked into silence, Malfoy sighs. “I’m just saying that I’d like to confirm the truce we discussed a few nights ago. And we could maybe even—well, try to be friends,” he says, his eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry has to swallow down the burst of longing that Malfoy’s gaze is inspiring in his stomach. “Friends?”

Malfoy nods, eyes sliding to the floor. “I doubt we’ll end up attached at the hip, obviously, but. Given our history, I just thought it particularly important to try this out with you first. This whole… friendship thing.”

Malfoy looks up into Harry’s eyes again, and Harry’s chest grows warm. Malfoy really does want to be… friends.

Harry doesn’t know what to think about that.

“I kind of thought we almost were friends,” he says after a pause. “Back in our eighth year, you know?”

“Potter—” Malfoy starts, but then he cuts himself off, flushing brightly—and his eyes flick down to Harry’s lips.

Fuck.

He’s thinking about it too, isn’t he?

He’s thinking about the kiss.

Harry’s chest starts to burn, all the pent up longing and regret that he thought he’d done away with years ago serving as ample fuel for the fire as he stares at Malfoy, his heart thumping wildly. God, he’d wanted Malfoy so much. He still does.

He has to look away. He doesn’t want to see Malfoy’s expression when he says what he should have said in the pub—what he’s wanted to say ever since they kissed.

Harry’s stomach churns, and he sighs. “If you want to be friends, then I’d like to know something,” he starts slowly, steeling himself. Then he puts it right out there, words spilling onto the floor. “We kissed, Malfoy. We kissed in eighth year, and then you ran away and left me there in the closet, and—and why? Why did you run?”

He remembers it so clearly, God. It was only supposed to be a game, a stupid rendition of seven minutes in heaven at their post-NEWTS party, and he and Malfoy were paired together.

Part of Harry had been annoyed. But part of Harry had jumped at the chance because he’d happened to have a stupid crush on Malfoy for far too long, and kissing him with no repercussions sounded too good to be true—just like the approving glances that Malfoy would occasionally shoot him when they were paired together in DADA.

Still, Harry mostly expected to spend that seven minutes in the closet in awkward silence.

Instead…

Malfoy kissed him.

And it had been _good._ Excellent, even. Malfoy’s lips had been soft and insistent, his hands hot on Harry’s back, sliding up his shirt—and Harry had completely fucking melted. He was seriously considering leaving the party and just taking Malfoy to bed with him—except that five minutes in, Malfoy froze as if he’d been shocked, disentangled himself from Harry’s grasp, and fled.

Harry barely saw him again all throughout their last few days at Hogwarts.

Malfoy’s lips tighten, and he looks away. “Potter…”

“Just tell me why, and I’ll let it go,” Harry says. Because more than anything—more than thoughts of future kisses or even just friendship—Harry just wants to know what he’d done wrong.

But Malfoy just shakes his head. “I can’t tell you,” he says, and Harry’s heart plummets.

“Why not?” Harry asks, frustration starting to build. “Isn’t that why you thought to come and—and _befriend_ me in the first place?”

Malfoy runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “It’s complicated, Potter.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry says, and bitterness starts to creep into his tone, bitterness from being left behind, from feeling alone for so many weeks after Malfoy fled. “What’s so complicated?”

And Merlin, he shouldn’t be reacting like this, but that kiss left more of an impact on him than he ever wanted it to. He’d wanted so desperately to figure everything out, to kiss a boy and find himself and become an Auror and fall in love. Two of which he’d done, though they’d been short-lived.

Beyond that… there was always something about Malfoy, for him.

It just took him a very, very long time to admit it.

“I told you, Potter. I can’t explain.” Malfoy sounds terse now too, and the idea that Malfoy is just going to shut him out again hurts far more than Harry would like to admit.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. This is too much, too much to have all of these feelings come surging back, washing over him, breaking through the dams that he thought were stable, flooding his senses with the ghosts of emotions that are far too strong for their own good.

He opens his eyes, crossing his arms. “Then I suppose we’re done here,” he grits out, gesturing toward the curtain to the front of the shop. “I won’t mention that we kissed to anyone else, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

“Potter…” Malfoy says.

“What?” Harry snaps.

Malfoy shakes his head, pushing himself up out of the chair. “Whatever, Potter. If you don’t want to talk about this like an adult, then yes, don’t mention it to anyone else.”

A brief moment of fierce anger washes through Harry’s veins, and he has to fight not to shout or reach for his wand or—or punch Malfoy in the fucking face, honestly. What gives him the right to act so superior?

But Malfoy’s right. They’re not teenagers anymore.

Harry finally manages to calm himself down enough to speak, turning away. “Fine,” he grumbles. “It’s not like I have a choice anyway.”

For a split second, Malfoy looks pained, and it catches Harry off guard. “You always have a choice, Potter.”

Harry can’t even begin to decide what Malfoy means by that, so when Malfoy turns and walks toward the curtain, Harry lets him. But just before Malfoy reaches the edge of the Muffliato, Harry opens his mouth. “I already told Ron and Hermione. Back then, I mean. Just so you know.”

Malfoy turns and looks at him, expression pensive, and nods. “I presumed you would,” he says. Then he takes a breath, folding his arms across himself. “If it helps, Potter—it’s not just you.”

“What, you mean you’re not so rude to everyone else? Charming,” Harry says, and he really shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t resist, not when he still has such a prevalent mix of anger and stupid fucking longing in his stomach.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Come off it, Potter,” he says, jaw clenching. “I meant that I don’t date. Anyone.”

Oh.

He doesn’t—?

Startled, Harry opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he’s too slow—Malfoy steps right through the curtain and is gone.

Try as he might, Harry can’t stop thinking about Malfoy’s words for that entire afternoon. It’s not even until hours later, in the middle of fixing dinner, that he realizes he’d forgotten to ask about the strange magic pulse he felt when they first shook hands a week ago.

He’ll just have to ask him next time, it seems, along with why exactly Malfoy is so shifty about dating.

If there even is a next time, that is.

Bloody Malfoy, with his unbearable sneer and his pretentious mysteriousness and his stupid fucking kissable mouth.

Merlin.

xXx

By the time Malfoy walks into Harry’s workroom the next day, Harry’s annoyance has cooled enough that the curiosity and wonder he’s starting to feel about Malfoy have vastly overridden it.

Of course, Harry’s stomach also decides to start fluttering madly the moment Malfoy looks at him. Almost as if Harry has some sort of crush on Malfoy.

Which he doesn’t.

Anymore.

He pushes those thoughts firmly away, raising his eyebrows. “You’re back.”

Malfoy shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I can leave.”

“Don’t,” Harry blurts out, then flushes. “I mean. I don’t care—er. It’s fine.”

Malfoy’s lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. “Eloquent as ever, Potter,” he mutters, looking relieved despite the taunt.

Sighing, Harry sets down his wand. “Come to insult me again, have you?”

“No, I—” Malfoy stops, letting out a short breath, and Harry’s honestly rather delighted to see his cheeks go pink. “I wanted to… apologize,” he says, and then before Harry can get a word in, he holds up a plastic bag filled with what looks like Muggle Styrofoam cartons. “Have you eaten?”

Harry lets out a surprised huff of laughter. “Did you buy me Muggle takeaway?”

“No,” Malfoy says, his expression growing pinched. “They took my order wrong and accidentally gave me too much, and I wasn’t too far from Diagon, so I thought I’d bring it by.” Harry can’t tell if it’s an excuse or not, but either way, he can’t help feeling pleased. “If you don’t want it, I can leave, of course,” Malfoy adds, turning toward the door.

“Wait,” Harry says quickly, stopping him. “Stay. I mean. I’m a bit hungry, yes. Um. Shall we eat?”

And within that is the unspoken _I forgive you_ that Harry thinks he’d rather die than say aloud. But if the small smile on Malfoy’s face is any indication, he understands exactly what Harry means.

A few minutes later, Harry’s cleared some of the clutter from his work table, and they’ve opened up their cartons of curry. Malfoy’s sitting in the same Easy-Shrink chair he’d been in yesterday—Harry hadn’t bothered to shrink it back again, and maybe he secretly wanted Malfoy to come back. At this point he doesn’t even know.

It’s quiet as they start eating. “Oh—this is good,” Harry says, his eyes widening.

“Of course it is,” Malfoy scoffs. “I wouldn’t buy it if it wasn’t.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t buy mine.”

He looks up at Malfoy just in time to see the faint flush in his cheeks. “I didn’t,” Malfoy says, but Harry can’t help grinning at him.

“If this is your way of apologizing, I should let you be rude to me more often,” Harry says, feeling a little smug.

“Shut up and eat, Potter,” Malfoy says darkly, but there’s a note of relief in his expression as Harry grins wider and goes back to his curry.

They eat in silence for several moments. Harry wants to ask what Malfoy’s doing here, but he’s afraid that Malfoy will leave again if the conversation grows serious.

And he doesn’t want Malfoy to leave.

Fuck. Malfoy walks back into his life, and everything goes right back to being pear-shaped again, doesn’t it?

After a few moments, Harry forces himself to mentally change the subject. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and asks, “You work with ‘Mione, right?”

“We share a workplace,” Malfoy says. “I wouldn’t say I work with her, per se, but I see her around occasionally.”

Harry nods, chasing a spare grain of rice with his plastic fork. “I dunno if you would know much more than I do about the case she’s working on, then—the one she mentioned at pub night?”

“They just debriefed the whole building about it, actually,” Malfoy says, setting down his utensils. “Apparently it’s serious enough that all of the hospital staff are finally considered ‘need to know personnel’.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. Hermione’s complained about the communication between the departments at St. Mungo’s for as long as she’s been working there. The fact that they’re actually coordinating an effort to keep everyone informed about this must mean it’s an even more dangerous situation than he imagined. He can tell, too, by how tired Hermione’s been at home. She’s barely been speaking at dinner, nose deep in books on biology and magical theory even as she’s eating. “Merlin. It’s really that bad?”

Malfoy purses his lips and nods. “It poses a significant risk to those of us Purebloods who work there, even with sterilization spells all over the place, not to mention all the undiagnosed patients walking around in the general public. I believe they sent out a statement to the press this morning.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “So it really is just Purebloods, then?”

“Seems to be,” Malfoy says, making a face. “My mother Owled me as soon as she saw the notice in the Prophet. Apparently there are some old Pureblood families who are attempting to blame it on some sort of Muggleborn curse.”

Harry groans. “Of course they are,” he says, rolling his eyes. But then he pauses, eyeing Malfoy. “You don’t think that, do you?”

“No, I don’t, Potter,” Malfoy says, giving him a look. “Mother doesn’t either, actually. But several members of Blaise’s extended family are quite livid about it, or so she said. They’re trying to force an investigation of some sort, although I gather that most of the younger Purebloods think it’s a load of bollocks.”

“Wow,” Harry says. It’s unsurprising that the old Pureblood families are still trying to claw their way into proving that Muggleborns are somehow dangerous. They quieted down after the war for obvious reasons, but the undercurrent of anti-Muggleborn sentiment had never quite disappeared in those families.

Harry doesn’t think that this is some sort of curse—Hermione’s mentioned nothing of the sort, and he trusts her judgement more than anyone. But still, it occurs to him that if someone truly wanted to rid the world of Purebloods, then this wouldn’t be a bad way to do it.

He rests his chin on his hand as another thought slips into his mind. “You’re… safe, right? You won’t catch this thing?”

Malfoy shrugs. “I’m as safe as any other Pureblood. Mungo’s has taken all the necessary precautions to prevent patient transmission, so I’m honestly more likely to get it from someone outside of the hospital, especially since the symptoms tend to be delayed.” He pauses and wrinkles his nose. “Like Granger said, it’s hard to tell when someone’s infected until they’ve already spread it to others. We’ve had a few families come in…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“That’s awful,” Harry says, shivering.

“I agree. I couldn’t imagine what that would be like, to have your whole family lose their magic,” Malfoy says, an expression appearing on his face that looks almost frightened.

Harry’s thoughts fly to Lucius Malfoy, sentenced to Azkaban for life, and he has the sudden impulse to reach out and comfort Malfoy. He restrains himself, unsure if Malfoy would even appreciate it, and instead twists his hands in his lap. “For what it’s worth, I hope you don’t get sick.”

Malfoy actually gives him a small smile. “Thanks, Potter,” he says. “I appreciate that.”

They finish eating in silence. But instead of being awkward like Harry half expects it to be, it feels almost comfortable to be sitting there next to Malfoy, strange as that is.

At two on the dot, Malfoy glances at the clock on the wall and says, “I should leave.”

Harry nods, then bites his lip, because he’s almost worried that Malfoy is going to leave for good—and Harry’s just realized that he really, really doesn’t want that. “You know,” he says, sucking in a breath. “I wouldn’t mind if you, um—came back sometime?”

Malfoy Vanishes their now empty food containers and stands, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that statement. “We’ll see, Potter,” he says finally, sounding faintly amused, and Harry bids him farewell with a tiny spark of hope in his chest.

xXx

Malfoy doesn’t show up the next day.

Harry really doesn’t want to admit that he’s sulky about it. But apparently he broods enough that Esther raises an eyebrow at him as he putters around the shop, shoving wares back into their places. “Did you get dumped, Mr. Potter?”

“No! I—we’re not dating. I mean. I’m not dating anyone. Anyway, you don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Harry grumbles, furrowing his brow.

“Riiiight,” Esther says, then snickers. “You know that Seb hasn’t even noticed?”

“There’s nothing to notice,” Harry tells her, but the words don’t sound true even in his own ears.

Esther simply laughs and goes to help a customer.

Harry feels more tired than normal when he goes home that night. He heads to bed early, hoping to get a bit of extra sleep, but when he closes his eyes, all he can see is Malfoy’s face, the way he’d looked when he’d smiled yesterday.

Harry curls his fingers into fists and tries to push the wanting away. It doesn’t seem to work, instead growing in desperate pulses in his chest, and finally after an hour of tossing and turning, he gives in, lets himself remember every moment of when they’d kissed, lets himself hope in vain for something more.

xXx

There’s an infuriating warmth in Harry’s throat when Malfoy steps into the back room the day after. He tries to swallow it back but fails entirely, and then he can’t help smiling. God. He has no idea what he’s doing.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. “You look pleased,” he says, and Harry flushes.

“Just, um, figured something out with Charms, see?” Harry says, picking up the closest thing he can reach on his worktable, which happens to be a regular Muggle key from who knows what project.

“Oh?” Malfoy says. “What does it do?”

“Um,” Harry says, setting the key back down on the table. “It’s a metaphor. For a way to make charms activate.”

It’s a half-arsed excuse and he thinks they both know it.

But Malfoy just snorts and says, “All right, Potter,” letting it slide. Then he stretches his arms, a nervous expression appearing on his face. “I thought we might go eat somewhere?”

Harry’s breath hitches. “Oh—yeah. I’d be okay with that,” he says, and Malfoy smiles and—God.

Is this a date?

Harry doesn’t want to read anything into it, especially since Malfoy’s already said that he doesn’t date at all—it could just be two blokes getting lunch together, like Harry and Ron do on occasion, but… still.

His mind can’t help running wild with the hope that maybe, just maybe, Malfoy might change his mind.

Harry pointedly ignores Esther’s giggling as they step out of the shop into the cool fall air. “Where are we going?” he asks.

“There’s a restaurant nearby that sells Muggle cuisine. Hamburgers, and the like,” Malfoy tells him.

Harry can’t help a surprised burst of laughter. “I couldn’t imagine you eating a hamburger.”

“What? Why?” Malfoy asks, looking affronted. “They taste perfectly fine.”

“You’re just so… proper,” Harry says. “It’s weird to imagine you eating things with your hands.”

“I had scones at breakfast every day at Hogwarts,” Malfoy points out. “You should know. You certainly stared at me enough.”

“That’s different,” Harry says. “Scones are more… I dunno. Dainty.”

Malfoy snorts. “Never in my life have I been called _dainty_ , Potter.”

“My point still stands,” Harry insists, and Malfoy laughs and bumps into him in a way that seems rather purposeful, a smirk on his lips.

Harry knows it’s just supposed to be playful, but—the touch feels good. And it’s stupid how tight Harry’s throat gets afterwards, but that’s something he’s just going to have to deal with. He’s decided after last night that he’s just going to suck it up and ride this thing through wherever it takes him, no matter the outcome.

At any rate, this is nice, this easy banter, the way Malfoy keeps looking at him as they walk. Harry could see them actually becoming friends if this kept up. Hell, maybe they are already friends. He’s not really sure where that line is.

Especially since more than anything, he still wants to kiss him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Malfoy says, and Harry’s throat briefly seizes.

“Yeah?” he asks, hoping it’s not actually true. “What’s that?”

“You must think it’s strange for me to want to be—friends with you, after all this time.”

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Harry thinks on it, shrugging. “I don’t think it’s that strange,” he says, as they turn onto a side street and dodge a short witch with a baby in her arms.

“Really?” Malfoy asks.

“I mean, we didn’t hate each other in eighth year, you know. So it’s not so odd to be friendly toward each other now, right?”

“I suppose so,” Malfoy says. “I—” He cuts off, walking a few steps in silence.

“What?” Harry asks, leaning closer.

“I… sort of always wanted to be friends with you,” Malfoy says quietly.

Harry breathes a sudden laugh, because God, did he really? “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Malfoy says, a half-smile on his lips. “I went out of my way to be an arse to you for most of our time at Hogwarts.”

“You could have just come out and said it,” Harry says, frowning. “That you wanted to be friends, I mean.”

“I tried. First year, on the train,” Malfoy says drily. “I should’ve known I was making a mistake in insulting Weasley, but.”

Harry thinks back to that first train ride. He has a vague recollection of seeing Malfoy, along with a brief memory of lots of sweets and Neville’s old toad, but that’s all. “I barely even remember that.”

Malfoy snorts. “Figures,” he says. “Something that barely registers for you was so—important to me. Back then, at least.”

Harry gives Malfoy a grin. “So you were obsessed with me.”

“Come off it,” Malfoy says, frowning at him. “And you weren’t with me?”

“Maybe,” Harry says noncommittally. He doesn’t mention that he still might be a little obsessed with Malfoy, that he can’t stop thinking about him, about kissing him and touching him and continuing right where they left off in eighth year.

Malfoy doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, that’s the restaurant,” Malfoy says, pointing over at a small shopfront a few strides ahead of them.

“I thought you said it was Muggle,” Harry says as Malfoy leads him toward it.

“It is. Well, it’s owned by Muggleborns,” Malfoy explains, and Harry is struck by a sudden appreciation for this new, post-war Malfoy, one who eats hamburgers at Muggleborn restaurants and goes out of his way to seek Harry’s company.

He thinks that he might like this Malfoy. Really, really like him.

And... fuck. That’s loads different than just wanting to kiss him, Harry thinks as they enter the restaurant and ask for a table. Wanting to kiss him just means there’s chemistry between them, nothing more. But _liking_ him…

Liking him means that there might be feelings involved, and Harry’s not sure he can bear that.

They look over their menus, and then the waiter comes and takes their order. Malfoy does indeed order a burger, which makes Harry laugh as he puts in his own order for fish and chips.

As soon as the waiter leaves, Harry puts up a quick Muffliato around their table.

“What,” Malfoy says, a slow grin spreading on his face, “Are you going to share all your secrets now?”

“No,” Harry huffs. Malfoy doesn’t need to know his secrets, especially as they pertain to him. “I just thought it would be nice if it were more private.”

Malfoy laughs. It’s a nice laugh, smooth and low. “Fair.”

They chat for a few minutes more, idle chatter over the weather and work and other things of no consequence. Halfway through their conversation, Harry looks down and realizes that Malfoy’s hand is on the table, close enough to touch if he wanted to. Harry wonders what would happen if he was to try and hold it. Probably Malfoy would pull away, but…

But.

Heart beating wildly, Harry puts his hand on the table, slides it slowly toward Malfoy’s, and Malfoy stops mid-sentence, staring at him. Harry can see Malfoy’s eyes widen as he tangles their fingers together, and Harry’s half-afraid he’s going to jerk away, but he doesn’t, just looks at Harry with his mouth slightly open.

“Potter,” Malfoy says softly.

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

“What are you doing?”

Harry shrugs, looking down at their hands, Malfoy’s pale against Harry’s skin. “Dunno,” he says. “Is this okay?”

Malfoy looks away, a flush on his cheeks. “I suppose.”

Harry grins at that, lightly squeezing Malfoy’s hand. “You’re all red.”

“Shut up,” Malfoy mutters, staring down at the table. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Harry’s stomach flips. “I was hoping I was subtle about it.”

“I doubt you have a subtle bone in your body,” Malfoy mutters, but his tone is teasing, and then his hand squeezes back.

God.

Holding hands shouldn’t feel this good.

“That’s unfortunate,” Harry says. “I was trying, you know.” He feels light, as if he was on his broom, high in the sky.

Malfoy shrugs, taking a sip of his water. “Being unsubtle isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

And maybe that means he _likes_ that Harry’s been looking at him.

Maybe it means that Malfoy’s been looking right back.

Fuck.

Harry gazes down at their intertwined hands, trying to distract himself from the unbearable rush of emotion flowing through his veins, and he suddenly thinks of the last time they’d touched in his shop. “Back when you paid me for the hairbrush,” he says, catching Malfoy’s attention, “There was some sort of magic that went off. Do you remember?”

Malfoy nods. “I do, yes. Why?”

Harry shrugs. “Any idea what happened?”

“Not at all,” Malfoy says, the slightest bit too quickly—and as he averts his eyes, the thought strikes Harry that he might just be lying.

“You weren’t casting some sort of spell on me, were you?” Harry asks, suddenly suspicious again.

“No. I wouldn’t do that,” Malfoy says, frowning at him. “I do try my best not to be a terrible person nowadays, Potter.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry blushes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I can see how you would come to that conclusion,” Malfoy says, shrugging. “At any rate, I don’t suppose you have any idea either?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, sorry,” he says. And even though he’s still a little suspicious, he’s suddenly distracted by the way Malfoy looks in the afternoon sun shining through the windows, the way his hair is almost golden and his cheeks are slightly red.

Harry smiles at him then, squeezing his hand. And Malfoy smiles back, his gaze growing softer—God, this feels so nice.

All too soon, the waiter returns with their food, and Malfoy pulls his hand away to eat. Harry has to admit that he’s again pleased with Malfoy’s choice of restaurants, and Malfoy spends the rest of the meal looking smug he bites into his hamburger.

They don’t touch on the way back to Harry’s shop, but the multiple times Harry catches Malfoy staring at him make his heart race all the same.

xXx

“He’s here again,” Esther says, poking her head through the curtain and winking conspiratorially. Harry glares pointedly at her until she laughs and disappears back into the shopfront. God, he’s going to have to start scheduling Seb for afternoon shifts instead of Esther if Esther’s teasing keeps up. Not that it’s going to stop her from doing it, but at least there’s less of a chance Malfoy will notice.

“Hullo,” Malfoy says, stepping through the curtain. “Your shop assistant seems to think there’s something incredibly funny about me.”

“Oh, don’t pay her any mind,” Harry says, sighing. “She’s just nosy.”

“All right, then,” Malfoy says. Then he holds up a paper bag. “I brought pastries.”

“Felt like staying in?” Harry asks, moving to clear off the clutter that somehow has managed to take over his work table again. He swears that it breeds during the night when he’s not looking.

“Sometimes other people are very tiring,” Malfoy says, and Harry thinks he knows what he means. “Especially with the work at Mungo’s—every potion has to be done as quickly as possible. Which is fine, because I’m aware lives are at stake, but that means the head nurses like to badger us potions researchers about product volume even when we’re on break. It’s quite annoying. Potions don’t just brew faster because you want them to.”

Harry thinks back to the time they made Polyjuice in second year and nods ruefully. He takes the bag of pastries Malfoy hands him, opening it up and picking out a Danish. Malfoy takes the bag back, pulls out a scone, and bites into it.

“Do you like your job?” Harry asks.

Malfoy thinks on it for a moment, Vanishing some crumbs that have fallen onto the worktable. “Most of the time. Days like today are tiring. But I like making potions, and it requires a lot of fine-tuning and Arithmancy, which is something I was fairly good at in school.”

“I think that would probably bore me,” Harry says, grinning. “Good on you for liking it.”

“It suits me,” Malfoy says, shrugging. “What about you? Do you like running your shop?”

“I do,” Harry says. “It keeps me busy. And trying to make new charms is just risky enough that it keeps me from wanting to go out and be rash in my downtime—Ron tells me all the time that he’s just waiting for me to come home with my bollocks hexed off.”

Malfoy snorts. “That, I’d like to see,” he says.

Harry rolls his eyes at him. “Git,” he says, unable to keep a smile from his face.

“Wanker,” Malfoy shoots back, his expression mirroring Harry’s, and Harry’s heart flips in his chest. “What made you want to start a shop, anyway?” Malfoy asks, actually looking interested.

“Well,” Harry says, thinking. “It really started with Molly Weasley, I suppose. After we graduated, I was only in the DMLE for about a year before I quit, and after that I was mostly just lying about, not really doing much of anything. I thought about trying to start a broom line, but I never could get the hang of flying charms—they require a good amount of patience, see. Anyway, I never noticed how much energy regular household upkeep charms can take out of you until I was talking to Mrs. Weasley about it one night after dinner at the Burrow.”

“What do you mean?” Malfoy says, seeming intrigued.

“Well, most people don’t notice on a regular basis, but spellwork can take a lot of energy from you. It takes time for your magical core to store up more of it, especially when you’re doing a lot of spells at once, which is part of the reason why professional Duelists have to retire at such an early age. It can be really draining.”

“Hmm, I never thought about that,” Malfoy says, nodding slowly. “So you’re saying household charms are the same way?”

“Right,” Harry says. “There are a lot of witches who have to do a lot of casting all at once on a regular basis, and it can be really taxing. But most of that effect is dampened if you use an item that’s already been charmed a certain way, like the chair you’re sitting in.” He gestures at the Easy-Shrink chair, now a permanent fixture in his workroom since Malfoy’s been visiting more frequently. “You just have to tap it with your wand to activate the spells—all it requires is a magical signature to feed it a bit of power. Of course, it’ll wear out someday, but I take care to try and cast a fair bit of spell-stabilization charms.” He smiles, shrugging. “And anyway, having repeat buyers helps to keep my business running.”

“That’s actually quite clever of you, to capitalize on that,” Malfoy says. “And thoughtful of you, too. You—you must care for Mrs. Weasley quite a lot.”

“I do,” Harry says, nodding. “She’s—honestly, she’s like a mother to me. And she’s my best product tester, too. Not to mention that Mr. Weasley’s always good to consult so I can make sure I’m not breaking the Misuse of Muggle Artifact laws.”

Malfoy pops the last bit of scone into his mouth. “I was wondering about that. How do you get around them?”

“I have to weave in quite a bit of Muggle-repelling magic, usually.” Harry picks up a sponge he’d been working on charming to self-Soap for a demonstration, casting the spell he uses to visualize all of the charms on an object. They light up, glowing around the sponge in their usual network of webby looking magic traces, and Harry points out the Muggle-repelling spells, which are a bright pink. “I try to color code all the spells that go together. It makes it easier later on.”

Malfoy moves his chair around the corner of the table so he can get a closer look. “That looks bloody complicated.”

“I used to think so too,” Harry says. “It took a lot of practice, and I couldn’t have done it without George’s help, either. He knows a ton more about charms theory than I do.”

“What do you do about charms that don’t play nicely with the Muggle repellant spells?” Malfoy asks, as Harry sets the sponge down.

“It depends,” Harry says. “They were a bit of a pain in the arse until I realized I could just make the item look a lot different from its Muggle counterpart, so generally I just disguise it as something else. At any rate, nothing I’ve made should be able to have its charm set off without a magical signature, so unless something malfunctions, then a Muggle would be fine even if they were to get ahold of it. Charming them this way is mostly precautionary.”

“Interesting. I was certain that you were making use of some loophole in the law or other,” Malfoy says. He’s leaned in closer as Harry’s been talking, and Harry can’t quite tell if he’s doing it on purpose.

He decides to test it. “Nope, no loopholes,” he says, leaning forward just the slightest bit as he does so. “I do try to follow the rules, you know.”

Malfoy leans in closer too, and now Harry can see that his pupils are dilated.

God.

They might just… kiss.

“Funny, I seem to remember that you didn’t really like rules all that much,” Malfoy mutters, smirking.

“I don’t,” Harry says, “Not really.” Mouth going dry, he leans in closer, reaches out and skims the tips of his fingers over Malfoy’s knee.

“I knew it,” Malfoy says, swallowing audibly. Then he looks up at Harry, so close now that Harry can see the flecks of silver in his eyes. “You always did enjoy a challenge.”

Harry’s breath is starting to come faster now. He feels dizzy, but in a good way, and he lets himself curl his fingers around Malfoy’s lower thigh. “I suppose it just comes naturally.”

Malfoy huffs a sharp laugh and leans in and presses his mouth to Harry’s.

Fuck.

His lips are soft and perfect and… fuck.

Harry groans, sliding his hand to Malfoy’s waist and reaching the other up to tangle in Malfoy’s hair, deepening the kiss. It feels just like he remembered, desperate and messy and wonderful, Malfoy’s breath warm on his face as he pulls away and kisses him again, again. He bites at Harry’s bottom lip and Harry shudders, melting into him as Malfoy tilts his head, slipping his tongue into Harry’s mouth.

“Mr. Potter—oh!”

Harry and Malfoy fly apart, and Harry turns to see Esther looking through the curtain, wide-eyed. “Never mind!” Esther says quickly, letting the curtain drop closed before either of them can say anything.

“Shite,” Malfoy says, looking away. “Fuck. We—we shouldn’t have done that, Potter.”

Harry can already feel the disappointment start to well on his tongue. “Sorry—I thought… I thought you wanted—”

“I did,” Malfoy says, interrupting him. “Don’t apologize, Potter.”

“Still, I—”

“Seriously, don’t,” Malfoy stops him. “It’s not your fault. You…” He swallows, shaking his head. “You make me want things that I shouldn’t want.”

God.

Malfoy wanted it.

Malfoy wants _him._

Harry’s lips are still tingling from the kiss when he opens them and asks, “Why shouldn’t you want those things?”

Malfoy lets out a long sigh. He looks tired now, worn out. “I’m sorry, Potter. I really can’t tell you. It’s… not something I can control.”

Harry shakes his head, pulling his arms around himself and feeling deflated. “It’s—you’re not engaged, are you?” he asks, because that’s the only thing he can think of that could explain Malfoy’s reluctance.

“No! Merlin, no,” Malfoy says. “It’s just… a family secret, I suppose. And before you ask, this isn’t because you’re not Pureblood.”

That thought hadn’t even crossed Harry’s mind, but now that Malfoy’s said it, Harry feels relieved all the same. Still, though, he wants to ask him more, to tease out exactly why Malfoy’s being so evasive about the issue.

But Malfoy’s obviously not going to answer, so he holds his tongue and turns to rest his elbows on the worktable, unable to stop himself from feeling a little crushed.

“So,” he says, letting his eyes drift shut. “I take it I shouldn’t kiss you again?”

Malfoy sighs. “No. Probably not.”

Harry nods, and then he braces himself for the inevitable wave of rejection to start slowly crushing him.

But before it can, Malfoy opens his mouth. “Potter,” he says quietly. “Don’t think that I didn’t—enjoy it. For what it’s worth. I—Merlin.”

Harry looks up at him then, eyes wide. “You… liked it?”

Malfoy nods, his cheeks going pink. “Yes,” he admits, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. “That goes for now as well as that time in eighth year, you know. It’s—it’s not that I dislike you, Potter.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I just really can’t date you. Or anyone.”

“Then why this?” Harry asks, frowning. “Why come to my shop and bring me pastries and—and _court_ me?”

“Because I really do want to be friends with you.” Malfoy looks more vulnerable now than ever, and maybe a little lost. It takes all of Harry’s strength not to lean over and try and comfort him. “And—and because I can’t help myself.”

Harry sighs, mulling it over in his head as his heart thumps painfully in his chest. “I’d like to be friends,” he says finally. “But I’d also really like to know why you don’t want—more.”

“I get it,” Malfoy says. “And I really do want to be able to explain it to you. Just… not yet.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and gives him a small smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Malfoy smiles back, looking cautiously relieved. “Thank you for understanding.”

Harry sits up, rifling around on his desk for a scrap of parchment and a quill. “Here’s my Floo address,” he says, scrawling it out on the corner of a shipment notice and tearing it off to hand to Malfoy. “For if you need—well, anything, really. Mind that Hermione or Ron might answer, though.”

Malfoy wrinkles his nose. “I hate the Floo,” he says, though he pockets the slip of paper anyway.

“There’s also an alley behind the flat that we usually use for Apparition,” Harry offers.

“That sounds better,” Malfoy says. “So you really… wouldn’t mind? If I came over?”

“Not at all,” Harry says. He thinks he would quite like that actually, having Malfoy in his home.

Malfoy takes a deep breath, opening his mouth. “Then what about tonight?”

“Tonight?” Harry says, heart pulsing in his chest. “Isn’t that a bit… soon?”

Malfoy groans, briefly hiding his face in his hands. “Sorry. We don’t have to. It’s just…” He sighs. “I don’t know if I’ll actually be ready yet, but I do want to at least try and explain everything to you. Because the sooner that happens, the sooner we can really try and be friends.”

“Okay,” Harry says, already nervous—God, how is he going to get through work today with the promise of that conversation staring him in the face? But he wants to know. He really, really does.

“So, tonight?” Malfoy asks, sounding tentative.

It’s half curiosity and half that damned longing that has Harry nodding and saying, “Yeah. Tonight.”

xXx

Harry’s more than glad that Ron’s fast asleep on the couch when he hears the knock on the door that evening. He opens it to find Malfoy dressed in a set of black casual robes, still more tightly fitted than they have any right to be.

“Hi,” he says, motioning for Malfoy to be quiet as he shuts the door behind him and leads Malfoy up to his room. Once there, he casts a Muffliato just to be safe, and then he exhales a breath of relief.

“Sneaking around, Potter?” Malfoy asks, raising an eyebrow as he sits in Harry’s desk chair.

“I just didn’t want it to be awkward, with Ron,” Harry says, shrugging. “Dunno what he would say to me having you over.”

“He’d probably faint,” Malfoy says, snorting. “Or try to hex me.”

“Oh, give him some credit,” Harry says, laughing. “He’d at least try to figure out what you were doing here first.”

“I’ll believe it when it happens.”

Harry laughs again and goes to sit cross-legged on the bed, marveling at the fact that he’s managed to get Malfoy in his room. Even though absolutely nothing is going to happen, it still feels strangely intimate, to have Malfoy here in his space—not to mention that he’s starting to crave Malfoy’s company whenever they’re apart, Merlin.

He’s starting to think that he might be very, very fucked.

After a moment, the playfulness drops from Malfoy’s expression, and he looks down to pick at an invisible thread on his robes. “So. I suppose I should start talking.”

“Only if you want to,” Harry says. “I want to know, but—I don’t want to force you.”

A strange expression appears on Malfoy’s face, but then, slowly, he smiles. “Believe it or not, I think I trust you,” he says, looking vaguely surprised to be saying such a thing.

“Oh,” Harry says, and he can’t resist smiling back. God. Malfoy trusts him. How did that happen?

Malfoy shakes his head, looking away. “I can hardly believe it myself. Did you know you’re a frustratingly good person?”

Harry blinks. “Er, I’d like to think so? But without the ‘frustrating’ part.”

Laughing, Malfoy leans back in the chair. “Merlin.”

“What?” Harry asks.

“You’re… never mind.”

Harry gives him a look. “No, what?”

Malfoy huffs. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“I dunno what you’re trying to say in the first place,” Harry points out, and Malfoy rolls his eyes in a way that seems almost fond.

“I’m trying to say that you’re much too attractive for your own good.”

“I—oh.” Harry’s mouth drops open slightly. “Fuck, I—Malfoy.”

“You want to sleep with me, don’t you,” Malfoy says, looking serious for a moment, and Harry flushes brightly.

“Um. I, er. Yes?” he manages to say, his voice coming out rather strangled because God, Malfoy’s getting straight to the point now, isn’t he?

Malfoy nods slowly. “I thought so. I feel… similarly. It’s distracting, really,” he says, looking briefly affronted.

Harry lets out a bubble of laughter, affection sprouting in his chest. “It makes it harder to stay focused on work, at least.”

“You’ve no idea,” Malfoy says, and then sighs. “I just wanted you to know that I am—I am attracted to you. Before I explain why there can’t be anything more.”

Harry swallows. “Okay,” he says, clenching his fists into the covers as he readies himself for the blow. Malfoy’s attracted to him, wants to sleep with him, even. And even if that admission is all Harry’s going to get—at least he hasn’t been imagining it all.

“Please don’t tell anyone this,” Malfoy says, and Harry nods. Truly, he has no idea what Malfoy’s about to say. His brain’s still all foggy from Malfoy’s admission of wanting to fuck him anyway, so all he can do is steel himself.

Malfoy looks at him, takes a deep breath, and says all in a rush, “I’m part Veela.”

Harry blinks. “Oh,” he says, not quite sure what to think.

Malfoy frowns at him. “Is that it?”

“Well… no,” Harry says, and shrugs. “For starters, I suppose I didn’t actually know there were male Veela.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond for a moment, and Harry feels silly for not saying something of more depth, but then Malfoy lets out a surprised laugh. “I worked myself up over nothing, didn’t I?” he says, shaking his head. “Merlin, I expected you to be more… offended. Or something.”

“Why would I be?” Harry asks, squinting at him.

“I forget, sometimes. That everyone’s not like my father, I mean,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “Not that I’d expect you of all people to be.”

“No, I get it,” Harry says, mulling it all over in his mind. “So… you’re a Veela.”

“Partially,” Malfoy says. “Some far off ancestor on Mother’s side. The Veela traits don’t always show up, though—Mother doesn’t have any symptoms of it at all, and neither did my grandparents.”

Harry lets out a low whistle. “How did Lu—your Father, I mean—how’d he take it?” Too late, he realizes that Lucius might be a sore topic for Malfoy, and his suspicion is confirmed when Malfoy recoils. “Er, sorry! Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says, mouth twisting. “He doesn’t know. He went to Azkaban before I first started showing the signs, and we haven’t really spoken since.”

God. As much as he dislikes Lucius, Harry can’t imagine how awful it must be for Malfoy not to even be able to speak to his father. “I’m so sorry,” he says, biting his lip. “I would have given testimony at his trial, but…” he trails off, looking away.

Malfoy gives a hollow laugh. “It’s fine. You had nothing good to say about him. It was enough that you spoke at both Mother’s and my trials.” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. “I suppose I never thanked you for that.”

Harry shrugs. “It was nothing, really.”

“Of course. Bloody savior complex,” Malfoy says, but his tone is more playful than anything, and Harry feels his chest grow warm again.

“Tell me more about being a Veela?” he asks. “Like—why haven’t I felt any sort of Allure from you? That’s something that happens, right?”

Malfoy smirks slightly. “You have felt Allure from me. Remember when we touched at the shop?”

Oh. That makes a lot of sense, actually. Harry gives him a look. “I knew you were lying about not knowing what it was.”

Malfoy looks sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t tell you yet.”

“It’s okay,” Harry tells him. “So why can’t I feel it now, or any of the other times we’ve touched?”

“I can control it to some extent,” Malfoy says. “It only tends to come out when I get—distracted, I suppose. But I’m on a potion suppressant that helps with the Allure as well as the other symptoms, so they don’t tend to be as much of a problem.”

Harry nods contemplatively. “But the potion doesn’t stop you from expressing the Allure completely?”

“No, not completely,” Malfoy says, leaning forward. “But it works well enough for that purpose, and for the other symptoms as well. It does a very good job of keeping my wings from coming out, actually. And…”

Malfoy sucks in a breath, looking away, and suddenly Harry gets the feeling that he’s about to say something that Harry won’t like.

“It makes it so I don’t have to worry about bumping into my mate,” Malfoy says, and Harry truly, fervently wishes he hadn’t been right.

Mate.

Malfoy has a _mate._

Harry’s blood goes cold. He stares at Malfoy, and suddenly there’s a flash of jealousy so strong in his veins that he almost feels queasy. “You—you have a mate?”

Malfoy sighs, folding his arms over his thighs. “Yeah.”

“Like… a soulmate. Someone meant for you?”

“Basically,” Malfoy says.

“And that’s why you can’t date me,” Harry finishes slowly, feeling like he’s been gutted.

“The gist of it, yes,” Malfoy answers. He looks up at Harry then, a nervous expression on his face. “What are you thinking, Potter?”

Harry shakes his head. God, he already knew that Malfoy didn’t want to date him.

So why does this feel so _bad?_

“I think I’d rather you be betrothed,” he says, and Malfoy lets out a rueful laugh. Then they’re both silent for a moment as Harry stares blankly at the floor.

He has a _mate_.

“Are you quite all right, Potter?” Malfoy says after a moment, his brow creasing. “I didn’t think you would feel so—strongly about it.”

Harry shakes his head, because God, he can’t let Malfoy know he likes him, especially now that  he knows he has no chance, none at all. “No! No, it’s fine. I was just—surprised, is all.”

“Really?” Malfoy says, eyebrows raising. “You mean—you don’t mind?”

“I can’t do anything about it one way or another,” Harry says, and that much is true. “Anyway, wanting to sleep with you doesn’t mean that… y’know. That I like you or anything.”

His words come out as awkwardly as Ron’s speeches at Ministry dinner parties, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice.

Instead, he looks relieved, and that hurts more than Harry expected to because—because Malfoy doesn’t _want_ Harry to like him.

Fuck.

“I’m glad,” Malfoy murmurs, a small smile on his face, and maybe Harry’s wrong. Maybe Malfoy just doesn’t want to hurt his feelings or something.

But he can’t seem to dislodge the insecure feeling in his chest.

Harry almost lets the conversation go before a thought occurs to him. “Can I ask you something?” he says, and Malfoy nods. “Why did you say you wanted to avoid your mate? I mean, aren’t you meant for each other?”

He’s not expecting Malfoy’s lips to twist or for his expression to grow so dismayed. “So they say,” Malfoy mutters, pushing himself up out of the chair. He starts to pace across the floor, hands crossed behind his back. “It might be hard to explain, but. I don’t want to be mated. Ever.”

Harry feels taken aback by Malfoy’s sudden brusqueness. “Wait—why not?”

“Lots of reasons,” Malfoy says, stopping and facing Harry. “One, I’m not given a choice in the matter. I swore the moment Voldemort died that I was never going to let someone control me like that again.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I know having a mate is different, and it’s supposed to be a good thing, but thinking about it just makes me feel—awful. And two…” He licks his lips nervously, and Harry has a sudden desire to reach out and comfort him. He doesn’t, of course, but the urge only intensifies when Malfoy continues. “It’s only a one-way bond,” Malfoy mumbles, looking more than a little distressed.

“Like—it’s not mutual?” Harry asks. He feels kind of at a loss for words.

“Yes,” Malfoy says, lips twisting. “Only the Veela is bonded to their mate, and not the other way around. Meaning that it’s very easy to exploit the bond, or for the mate to decide they don’t want them, and—” He cuts off, glaring at the floor. “It happened to one of my ancestors, or so it was said. She died afterwards. Couldn’t bear living without her mate.”

“God, that’s awful,” Harry says, frowning. “It just—kills you? If your mate leaves or dies or something?”

“I’m not sure, honestly,” Malfoy says. “It’s somewhat rare. But I’ve heard that it can be physically painful. Even just—um, abstaining from intercourse—”

Harry interrupts him by letting out a soft burst of laughter. “Sorry, just—you sound like a prude.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to keep the conversation clean, thank you very much, Potter.”

Harry snorts. “You can say ‘shag’, y’know.”

“Fine, fine,” Malfoy says, looking as if another eye roll isn’t too far off the horizon. “If a Veela doesn’t _shag_ their mate, then there are some rather uncomfortable consequences, or so it’s said.” Malfoy makes a face. “It’s barbaric, really. Even for full-blooded Veela, I imagine it’s quite annoying to be biologically required to mate.”

“But you said that having a mate leave a Veela doesn’t happen too often, right?” Harry asks, curious.

“No, it doesn’t,” Malfoy confirms. “Veela tend to take very good care of their mates in—well, various ways.” There’s a small flush on Malfoy’s face, and Harry feels a brief spurt of arousal—he thinks he might rather like to know some of what Malfoy’s thinking about.

God. He’s so fucked.

But then Malfoy’s expression grows somber again. “Even though it’s a one-sided bond, the whole affair can be just as constraining to the mate as it is to the Veela, if you really think about it.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

Malfoy thinks for a moment. “Imagine if you had a partner and they told you that they would be in excruciating pain if you left. Would you leave, then?”

“Oh,” Harry says, alarmed. He doesn’t think he could ever intentionally cause someone that much pain, even if he weren’t really in love with them—which he supposes is exactly what Malfoy is getting at. “God, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says. “I don’t want to force anyone else into anything. And I don’t want to be forced into anything either, so. It’s a simple solution, really. I simply won’t mate.”

“That makes sense, actually,” Harry says, nodding slowly. He wonders if he would do the same, if he were in Malfoy’s position—but then again, he can’t even imagine what it’s like to be in love in the first place, having never experienced it. He certainly can’t imagine falling in love instantly like what might happen with a mate.

And honestly, right now he can’t even imagine liking anyone other than Malfoy.

Even though it’s clear that Malfoy doesn’t want to be with him. _Can’t_ be with him.

God.

“So… you’re just going to go on without even finding out who it is?” he asks, because he’s morbidly curious, even now.

Malfoy looks away. “You could say that,” he murmurs, but there’s a small amount of shiftiness in his tone, and Harry doesn’t need a Sneakoscope to tell that Malfoy’s lying.

It still takes Harry a moment before it dawns on him.

_Fuck._

“Wait… you know who it is already, don’t you?” he asks quietly.

Malfoy hangs his head and nods.

Oh.

Harry’s throat tightens, and all of a sudden, he feels frozen—with longing, with jealousy, with a whole mess of feelings that are constricting around him, holding him down so he can’t move.

Malfoy has a mate. Malfoy knows his mate, could go out and find whomever it is whenever he wants to—

Except that he doesn’t want to.

At least there’s that.

“It’s…” Harry tries, ungluing his tongue from his mouth. “It’s not Pansy, is it?”

Malfoy gives a short laugh. “Oh Merlin, no, of course not. I’m gay, Potter.”

Harry shrugs, the miserable feeling still lingering in his stomach. “Wasn’t sure if that was how it worked.”

“I guess now that you say it, I’m not sure either.” Malfoy’s expression grows pinched. “Maybe I’m gay because my mate is a man. I won’t ever really know, I suppose, but—I hate thinking about it controlling me like that.”

Harry wants to respond, but his mind is still stuck on the fact that Malfoy’s admitted his mate is a man. As in, there’s some man out there who’s perfect for Malfoy, someone who’s probably tall and handsome and has good vision and can buy Malfoy anything he wants—God.

“Potter? You all right?” Malfoy asks.

Harry isn’t, not really, but he nods his head anyway. “Just, er, processing, I guess.”

“Ah, yeah,” Malfoy says, nodding. “It took me a while to wrap my brain around it too, when Mother first mentioned it might happen to me. I almost thought she was playing some sort of prank on me, but then I met my mate, and… it all became real, I suppose.”

Harry wants to ask how Malfoy met his mate, but every time he thinks of Malfoy and the word ‘mate’ in the same sentence, that damned jealousy threatens to eat him alive. So he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t know if he could deal with knowing the answer.

And then a thought pops up in his mind.

He’s almost ashamed to even be thinking it. But he can’t bring himself to let it go.

“So,” he says, throat dry. “If you already know who your mate is, then, er. Why don’t you date whoever you please?”

Malfoy laughs lightly. “Merlin, Potter, you really are trying to get into my trousers, aren’t you?”

Blushing wildly, Harry shakes his head. “What—no, no, I’m just curious, y’know?”

“Sure,” Malfoy says, drawing out the word, and the small smirk on his lips is so attractive in that moment that Harry almost forgets his embarrassment.

“Anyway. Um. Why the no dating rule?” Harry asks again.

“It’s something I decided early on, once I realized what I was,” Malfoy explains, crossing back over to the chair. He turns it backwards and straddles it, folding his arms over the top. “It’s because I can never be sure that I won’t change my mind about mating one day, or that something won’t accidentally go wrong with my suppressants—I don’t want to be mated, but that doesn’t mean there’s no chance of it happening. And if I were mated while I was already seeing someone else…? Well. I think it might hurt them quite a lot, if it were a serious relationship.”

Harry swallows as he tries to imagine how it would be if Malfoy _did_ date him, only to run off with his mate in the end. And then he immediately stops trying to imagine it, because it only makes the despair in his lungs grow stronger. “Merlin, that’d be awful.”

“I agree,” Malfoy says matter-of-factly. He pauses, lips quirking into a rueful smile. “And on that note… I suppose I should apologize again.”

Harry sits up straighter, brow furrowing. “Why?”

Malfoy sighs sheepishly. “I grew up a spoiled child. Sometimes it can be difficult for me to want something and not be able to have it, so… I’ve been leading you on, to some extent, and I know it’s probably been terribly inconvenient to you.”

Flushing, Harry looks at the floor. “I haven’t minded, actually. It’s been… fun.” He’s doesn’t mention the whole craving-Malfoy’s-company thing, or the fact that part of him wants, even now, to cross the room and kiss him.

Malfoy simply laughs. “Don’t tempt me to keep going, Potter. I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, and he’s mostly joking—except that part of him really doesn’t want to be joking.

He doesn’t want to admit it aloud, but he doesn’t want to stop this—this _thing_ they’ve had going on. It’s been more than just being friends, and he thinks they both know it—and Harry’s liked it. A lot.

“Because relationships just don’t work like that,” Malfoy states, one eyebrow raised.

“They could,” Harry says slowly. “Like… what if we didn’t date? Just, you know. Became friends with benefits or something?”

Malfoy looks startled. “Potter…”

“If you don’t want to, I’ll drop it,” Harry says immediately, the spark of hope in his chest thoroughly doused.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Malfoy says, biting his lip. “It’s just that there’s another reason I didn’t mention for why I can’t date anyone besides my mate, and it’s that—well. I’m not even sure I’m capable of having sex with anyone other than—him. Especially now that I know who he is.”

Harry stares at him, that jealousy simmering under the surface of his skin. “Merlin, really?”

“I’ve heard sex with non-mates described as varying between vaguely uncomfortable and excruciatingly painful, yes,” Malfoy says, folding his arms across himself. “It’s not really a risk I’d enjoy taking.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his eyebrows knitting together. “I wouldn’t want you to risk that either.”

“But you still want to sleep with me, don’t you?” Malfoy says, aiming a smirk at him.

Harry lets out a sheepish laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, I do. Sorry.”

Malfoy snorts. “It’s all right, Potter. As I said before, despite the fact that you always seem to wear robes that are a few sizes too large and that your hair is an atrocious mess—I do think you’re attractive.” For a moment, his playful façade fades away, and it sounds an awful lot like he’s being sincere.

If only that was enough.

But Harry goes with it anyway. “You mean you want to shag me,” he says, feeling bold.

Malfoy chuckles. “Fine, if you’re going to make me say it—yes. I want to shag you.” He sighs. “But I can’t, unfortunately. You see why now, right?”

Harry nods slowly, clearing his throat. “Then, in that case… what if we just—kissed sometimes?”

Malfoy’s lips twist. “I’m tempted, but. I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea either.”

“It isn’t?” Harry says—but then he thinks back to both of the times they’ve kissed and frowns. “Wait. It hasn’t been hurting you, has it? God, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“No, no, it doesn’t hurt, don’t worry,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “I just… don’t want to get carried away.” He steeples his fingers, eyeing Harry nervously. “I suppose I should mention that I haven’t had sex in a very long time—since I found out I was a Veela, honestly. I’m simply afraid I’ll forget that I’m not supposed to do more than kiss until it’s too late.”

And Harry understands that completely—hell, every time they’ve kissed so far, he’s wanted to go further, to take Malfoy apart so Malfoy can feel just how desperate Harry feels when they touch. But if it’s something that will hurt Malfoy… “I think I could stop us,” he says seriously.

“Even if I told you I wanted to keep going?” Malfoy asks. Then he leans forward, lowering his voice. “Even if I begged?”

Harry shivers. “Er—maybe not.”

Malfoy laughs. “You see, if I didn’t want this too, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I concede your point,” Harry says, and he can’t help grinning at him, just a little. Malfoy _wants_ him. God.

He knows he’s kind of being ridiculous at this point. But more than anything, he doesn’t want to lose this new comfort he’s found being in Malfoy’s presence, this warm happiness that’s sprung up nearly out of nowhere.

He tries to picture going back to having lunch without Malfoy, and suddenly the days spreading out in front of him seem unbearably bleak.

Anything is better than that.

“So no sex, and no kissing,” he says, because it can’t hurt to try. “Anything else?”

And maybe he actually is joking at this point. But hell, he wants Malfoy, and Malfoy says he wants him too—and really, the fact is that Harry’s been lonely for a very long time.

He has Ron and Hermione. But it’s different now, especially since they’ve been dating for so long, and he hasn’t been seeing anyone seriously since he parted ways with Ginny all the way back at the beginning of eighth year. He’s fucked a couple Muggles after nights at the bar, but that’s been the extent of his sexual forays, and most nights he’s too busy balancing the shop’s checkbooks to bother looking for someone to pull.

“Why the insistence, Potter?” Malfoy says, still looking faintly amused. “I can’t sleep with you. Not that I’m not flattered or anything, but I just don’t see what’s in this for you.” He levels an eyebrow at Harry. “Unless you’re secretly in love with me?”

Harry splutters. “No! God—we’ve barely talked,” he says. And it’s true. He isn’t in love with Malfoy.

But the fact of the matter is that he could see that changing in a very short amount of time, with the way things have been going.

Fuck. He’s already much too invested in this, and they’re not even dating.

He sighs. “It’s just—it’s been nice, having you around,” he explains carefully. “I mean, I’m not dating anyone, and I doubt that’ll happen anytime soon. So I don’t see any harm in just continuing what we’re doing, you know?”

Malfoy purses his lips. “I suppose that’s fair.” He sucks in a breath, looking Harry squarely in the eyes. “But if you feel like you might be developing some sort of feelings at any point, you should really tell me. Because I meant it when I said I didn’t want to hurt anyone, Potter, and believe it or not, that includes you.”

Harry swallows, throat suddenly tight. He knows he feels much more for Malfoy than he should. But if the alternative is Malfoy walking away…

“Okay. I’ll tell you,” he says.

Even though that might just be a lie.

But it’s fine. This just means he can never, ever let Malfoy know how he feels about him. That should be easy enough, right?

He’s taking a risk, he knows. But the brilliant smile Malfoy gives him just then makes it worth it.

“So you want to—what. Eat lunch with me?” Malfoy asks. “Seems rather normal for a friendship, you know.”

Harry snorts. “We’ve been flirting and you know it.”

Malfoy grins, pushing up the sleeves of his robes, which is a much more attractive action than it ought to be. His Mark is exposed for once, but Harry's gaze doesn't linger—he's seen it several times before, during quiet nights in the eighth year common room. "I suppose we have," Malfoy says. 

“There are other things too,” Harry points out, and he can feel himself flushing. For some reason this is even more embarrassing than admitting he wants to shag Malfoy, but he says it anyway. “We held hands. I thought that was nice.”

Malfoy gives a startled laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, Potter. Are you sure you’re not in love with me?”

“I’m not,” Harry insists. “I’m just… I dunno.” He shrugs, not sure how to explain it without letting on that already he feels much more attached to Malfoy than he should.

“Touch-starved?” Malfoy suggests.

And honestly, maybe that really is it. There’s no confirmation that this feeling in his chest is only because it’s Malfoy—maybe he’d feel like this with any wizard he could touch openly. “Yeah, probably,” he says, twisting his hands together. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Malfoy says, biting his lip. “I understand. It does feel… nice, to have someone to be around like this.” He rests his chin on his palm, leaning on the back of the chair. “I suppose I’m still trying to understand why you’re interested in doing it with—well, me. I thought the whole Veela thing would scare you off, if not our shared history.”

“No, not at all,” Harry says, frowning. “As long as you still want to?” He tries and fails to swallow back the sudden fear building in his throat, the fear that Malfoy will suddenly change his mind, that he’ll get up and leave Harry’s house and stop coming by the shop, that he’ll go right back to ignoring him just as he has for years.

“I do. Don’t worry,” Malfoy says, an amused smile growing on his lips. “If it makes a difference to you, Potter, I’ll hold your hand.”

It feels like a weight’s been lifted off Harry’s chest. He hadn’t realized just how apprehensive he’d been about Malfoy turning him down until this moment. “Yeah?” he asks, probably too eagerly, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Malfoy grins, shaking his head. “Sure, Potter. As long you’re really sure you don’t mind that we’re not going to be doing some of the more… intimate things, then I suppose I don’t see any harm in it.”

“Okay,” Harry says, feeling elated—fuck, he can’t believe this is actually working. He grins, tracing his eyes over Malfoy’s face, and Malfoy shakes his head but he’s smiling too.

“Well? What now?” Malfoy asks, sounding amused.

“C’mere,” Harry says, patting the bed next to him. He half expects Malfoy to say no, to change his mind, especially when Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him—but then Malfoy slowly stands from the chair, walking over and sitting next to Harry on the bed.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Potter?” Malfoy says, and God, he’s so close.

Harry can’t kiss him, but.

That’s okay.

It’s honestly more than he’d expected, to be able to look Malfoy in the eyes, to reach over and link their fingers together without Malfoy protesting.

Malfoy’s hand is warm. He thinks he could get used to this.

“Dunno,” he says, his voice husky, a tender feeling unfurling in his stomach. “You tell me.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a sap, Potter?” Malfoy asks. He’s staring at where their fingers are intertwined with an almost bewildered expression that makes Harry want to laugh.

“Are you going to keep calling me Potter forever?” Harry retorts instead, and he knows he’s probably grinning like a loon but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I—I don’t know,” Malfoy says, giving him a strange look. “I haven’t thought about it. Are you going to keep calling me Malfoy?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “I could call you Draco.”

He’s not expecting Malfoy to turn bright red. “ _Potter._ ”

Laughing, Harry squeezes his hand. “What?”

“Never mind,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”

“Draco,” Harry says again, softer this time, and Malfoy makes a small noise of surprise.

“Nngh—Potter! Stop that.”

“Why?” Harry asks, grinning again. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked it.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but there’s still a faint flush in his cheeks. “Whatever.”

“Draco, then,” Harry decides, pleased, and Draco groans and flops back onto the bed. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“Fine,” Draco mutters.

“Okay,” Harry says, a warm thrumming in his chest. He lies back next to Draco so that both of their legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. “So. What now?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Draco asks. “This was your idea.”

“Doesn’t mean I have all the answers,” Harry points out, and Draco hmphs in reluctant agreement.

There’s a long pause where both of them lay there, staring up at Harry’s ceiling. Then Draco opens his mouth and says, “This is ni—”

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Oi, Harry,” Ron’s voice says. “Can I come in?”

Harry only has time to give Draco a startled look and pull his hand away before Ron barges into the room without waiting for an answer. “Have you seen—oh.” His eyebrows fly up as he stares at Draco. “What’s Malfoy doing here?”

Harry sits up, along with Draco. “We were, er, talking,” Harry says. Which he supposes is the truth, although he doubts Ron will buy it.

It’s only then that Ron seems to register how close together Harry and Draco are. Ron’s eyes grow wide. “Wait—you’re not _shagging,_ are you?”

Harry splutters. “Um—”

“So what if we were?” Draco interrupts. “Going to do anything about it, Weasley?”

Harry gives him a look because they’re _not,_ shagging, they’ve just discussed this, and anyway he really doesn’t want Draco picking a fight right now.

Draco leans in and whispers, “It’s the easiest explanation.”

Which is probably true, Harry concedes. But he’s still bracing himself for an argument, so he’s surprised when Ron relents, simply shrugging and says, “No, I s’pose not.”

Draco gives him a small, careful smile. “Then we’re good, right?”

“Sure, I guess,” Ron says, blinking at them. “Blimey, really, though?”

Harry shrugs. Slowly, he reaches back to take Draco’s hand again, and Draco complies, lips curving into a smirk.

“Fuck, that’s weird,” Ron says, shaking his head. “I never would have thought… Never mind. Harry, as long as you’re happy, and as long as he’s not—I dunno, planning to curse you in his sleep or something—”

“He won’t,” Harry says immediately. “It’d be too easy for him to get caught anyhow, especially now that you know about—well, er. Us.” God, are they an _us_ now? Harry doesn’t even know.

But Ron doesn’t even seem to notice Harry’s inner turmoil. “Huh. You’re right, actually,” Ron says, giving him a begrudging nod.

“I’m surprised, Potter,” Draco says. “That’s a very Slytherin conclusion of you.”

“I was almost Sorted Slytherin, you know,” Harry tells him.

Draco shoots him a pleased expression, one that makes Harry’s heart beat just a little faster. “Really?” Draco asks, raising his eyebrows. “What did the Hat say?”

“Well,” Harry starts, but Ron clears his throat.

“Hang on, hang on,” Ron interjects, and they both turn back to look at him. “Before you two start—flirting, or whatever, blimey, this is weird—have you seen ‘Mione around?”

Harry thinks on it. “Not since last night, no. Is something wrong?”

“Not really,” Ron says. “She was supposed to have the day shift, though, and it’s past when she should’ve been back. Usually she at least Owls if she’ll be late.”

Harry frowns. “You don’t suppose something’s happened?”

Ron opens his mouth to speculate, but before that can happen, Harry hears the distinctive sound of their front door squeaking open. “Oi, I bet that’s her,” Ron says, already turning to leave the room.

Standing, Harry looks at Draco and nods his head toward the door. “I want to go check on her,” he explains.

“I’ll come with you,” Draco offers. “I should probably go soon, anyway.”

Harry wants to protest, but he holds his tongue. After all, it’s not like Draco will want to spend the night or anything, as much as Harry might want him to.

But thoughts of lying in bed with Draco fade from his mind as they head to the den. Even before Harry walks into the room, he can hear from Ron and Hermione’s voices that something is very wrong.

He speeds up his pace, rushing into the room to find both of them looking distraught. “Is everything okay?”

Hermione sees him and strides over to hug him. “Oh, Harry, it’s awful,” she says. “And—oh, Malfoy? Um, hello,” she adds, aiming a surprised look at Harry.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry tells her. “Go on, what’s wrong?”

Hermione shakes her head, expression dismal. “It’s awful,” she says again. “It’s Neville, see. He’s—he’s sick.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Shite. You don’t mean…?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” Hermione says, the furrow in her brow deepening as she confirms Harry’s thoughts. “The magical core disease.”

Fuck.

Harry stares at her incredulously. “God, he was fine a week ago at dinner,” he says, a sudden numbness in his blood.

“That’s what I said,” Ron says. He looks stricken.

Hermione just shakes her head, looking devastated. Harry swallows. “And—and Blaise?”

Hermione hangs her head. “We’ve got him under quarantine,” she says, and Harry can see Draco tense up even out of the corner of his eye. “He admitted himself to the hospital before he even started showing symptoms. He’s worried sick as it is about Neville, let alone about spreading it to everyone else.”

Harry reaches out without thinking and finds Draco’s hand, squeezing it in a way he hopes is at least a little comforting. Hermione looks down and sees, her eyebrows lifting, and Harry knows she wants to ask about it. But right now Harry’s more concerned about Draco, because Draco’s growing paler by the second.

“You okay?” Harry asks him, because he knows Draco and Blaise are close, and he’s sure that Draco is even more stunned than Harry is right now.

But Draco’s expression turns fierce when he opens his mouth and says, “Granger. Please tell me that there isn’t a chance the rest of us could’ve caught this thing from Neville.”

Harry’s gut clenches. What if— _fuck._

Hermione’s mouth drops open. “Shite, I didn’t even think of that.” She holds up her fingers, counting what Harry assumes is days, mouth forming over words that he can’t make out. After what feels like ages but in reality is only a moment, she opens her mouth and slowly says, “I think everyone from pub night should be okay. There are at least  a couple days between that night and when the predicted contagion window should start.”

“Thank fuck,” Draco says, relaxing, and Ron lets out a sigh of relief.

“The window isn’t certain, though,” Hermione cautions, lips pursing. “And even though it’s only transmitted by touch, I would keep a very close watch on yourselves in the next few days—well, not you, Harry. I think it’s safe to say we’ve confirmed that non-Purebloods can’t even be carriers for the disease.”

“That’s good to hear,” Harry says. But it doesn’t make him feel much better, if at all. He’s still worried about Draco, and Ron, too.

“Fuck,” Ron says, walking over to slump down onto the sofa. “First Neville—then what? The rest of us, one by one?”

“God, I really, really hope not,” Hermione says. “I’m—I’m working on a solution. But I keep hitting dead ends, and I just don’t have _time_ because people keep getting sick, and God, and I’m so bloody tired!” She shakes her head, looking miserable as she turns and trudges over to the sofa, sitting next to Ron. Ron puts his arm around her, holding her close for a moment, and Harry turns away.

“You okay?” he asks Draco again, taking in his pinched expression and the faraway look in his eyes.

“As fine as I can be, given the circumstances,” Draco says, sighing.

Harry nods, giving him a bleak smile, and motions toward the other sofa. Draco nods and follows him over, and they don’t sit quite as close as Ron and Hermione are, but Draco doesn’t let go of his hand either—rather, he seems to be squeezing it more tightly, and it takes Harry a moment to realize Draco really is frightened.

“Anything I can do?” Harry asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“I doubt it,” he says. “Though I suppose you could help Granger research.”

Hermione raises her head at the sound of her name. “Hmm?”

“Draco was saying that I should offer to help you with research,” Harry explains. “Which I should’ve thought of before, honestly.”

Hermione seems to perk up slightly at that. “That would be a great help, actually,” she says. “There are some threads I’d like to follow that I haven’t had time to read into.”

“I can work on that in the next few days, then,” Harry offers, smiling at her. “Most of what I’m doing at the shop right now is product development anyway. I can afford to slack off a bit.”

“I can help too,” Ron says, sitting up. “Just lemme know what to read, ‘Mione.”

“Thank you so much, you two,” Hermione says, giving them a relieved-looking smile. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Harry says, and Ron nods in agreement. It’s not like he doesn’t have experience poring through books with Ron and Hermione at his side—it’ll be just like Hogwarts, really, high stakes and all.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asks, turning to him. “Would you mind letting me pick your brain about potions sometime?”

“Sure,” Draco says, looking immediately interested. “Is it possible that there’s a potion that would help?”

“Possibly,” Hermione says. “Not for the cure, but for afterwards. See, all of the patients will have to regrow their magical cores if they want to return to their normal lives, and if I’m not wrong, I don’t think even our strongest core regrowth potions would be able to deal with a loss to the extent of some of their disease progressions.”

“I see,” Draco says. “Go ahead, then, ask away.” He tilts his head, frowning slightly. “Though better yet, we can set up a time later on. You seem tired enough that I doubt it would be helpful to keep you awake any longer.”

Hermione gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. “I suppose I will go to bed, then. Could we meet tomorrow evening?”

“That’s fine,” Draco says. “Owl me when you’re free and I can come up. I’ll help research too, if necessary.”

“Thanks,” Hermione says again, looking like a load has been taken off her shoulders.

Harry aims a small smile at Draco, and Draco sees it, snorting softly. “Sap,” he mutters under his breath.

“Git,” Harry replies. Once again, he sees Hermione looking at them, and he knows that she’s going to be peppering him with questions in the very near future.

But not quite yet. First, sleep, for all of them.

xXx

“So,” Hermione says, plopping herself down in the chair Draco usually uses in Harry’s workroom. “Malfoy, hmm?”

Harry blinks at her, setting down his pliers and casting a Muffliato in the direction of the shopfront. “Don’t you have work?”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Technically it’s my day off. I went in anyway, but I told myself I could take an extra-long lunch break today. Speaking of which,” she says, sliding the fourth generation of her beaded purse off of her shoulder and pulling out a couple of sandwiches. “Here.”

“Oh, er. Thanks,” Harry says, feeling rather alarmed as he clears off a section of his worktable so they can eat. He didn’t expect Hermione to take time out of her day to come talk to him about this, especially seeing as she’s been so worried about work recently, for good reason.

Without further ado, Hermione unwraps her sandwich and says, “Did you know Draco is part Veela?”

Harry nearly drops his sandwich on the ground. “I—um. Yes? But how did you know? He just told me last night,” he says, looking at her quizzically.

Hermione raises her eyebrows. “Interesting,” she says, sounding surprised. “I figured it out a couple years ago, when he started working at Mungo’s. See, I’d gotten rather good at reading magical signatures—sort of like you, with your charmwork,” she says, gesturing at Harry’s (embarrassingly disorganized) worktable. “I started getting a faint Veela signature on some of the potions bottles, and well, I was curious.” She looks suitably sheepish as she continues to say, “I sort of—cast a couple of diagnostic spells when he wasn’t looking. Nothing intrusive,” she hurries to add as Harry gives her a look. “Just to see. Because I’d wondered, after the end of eighth year.”

Harry stares at her. “What? Really?”

Hermione nods, pausing to bite into her sandwich. “I’d already started training myself to read signatures at that point. His whole aura had changed.”

Harry is immediately and forcefully reminded just exactly how powerful of a witch Hermione is, and thinks to himself not for the first time that he’s very glad she’s on his side. Most of the time.

“Eat your sandwich,” Hermione says in a tone that means business.

Harry hastens to obey, because he knows from experience that Hermione on a mission is a force he does not wish to reckon with. “So,” he says between bites.

Hermione sets her sandwich down, steepling her fingers. “What do you know about male Veela?”

Harry swallows, grabbing a glass from where he keeps them on the windowsill and filling it with an Aguamenti to stall for time. “Well, er. Mostly just what Draco told me, I guess. They have wings, and can use Allure, and—and they have mates.”

“Okay,” Hermione says. And then, “What do you know about the mating process?”

Harry gets the sudden feeling that Hermione is leading him to some sort of conclusion he’s not going to like. “He said they have some sort of chosen mate, and that they’re supposed to mate for life. And, um. They can’t, er, sleep with anyone else, I guess?”

Hermione nods slowly. “All right, then…?” she says, and then waits expectantly.

Blinking at her, Harry furrows his brow in confusion. “What?”

Sighing, Hermione leans forward. “Listen, Harry, you know you can tell me anything? Ron and I, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Hermione gives him a strange look. “I’m just, well. I’m wondering if there’s something you’re not saying.”

“I don’t think so?” Harry says, surprised. “I mean, besides, um, the fact that we’re—Draco and I, I mean—are sort of together now, but. I thought you knew that.”

“Huh,” Hermione says. “No, I did know that.” She squints at Harry for a moment. “So let me get this straight—you’re not mated to Draco?”

“No, no, of course not!” Harry says, eyebrows flying up.

“Okay,” Hermione says slowly. “But you’re shagging him.”

Harry suddenly understands why Hermione is so concerned and lets out a small bubble of laughter. “God, no, not actually. It’s just, well, easier to explain than going into the whole Veela thing, so.”

“Oh good,” Hermione says, looking rather relieved. “Not that I would disapprove or anything, if you did, but I suppose I was a little hurt when I thought you were keeping it from me—I know I’ve been gone at work recently, but I still would’ve hoped you would let me know,” she says, laughing, a little embarrassment in her eyes.

“I would’ve said,” Harry tells her, “Definitely. And at any rate, this is pretty recent, so I haven't really even processed it myself yet.”

“I completely understand,” Hermione says, toying with her sandwich wrapper. “But… to be clear. Are you his mate?”

Harry stares at her for a moment. He… actually hadn’t considered that. It’d seemed so far outside the realm of possibility that he hadn’t even dreamed of it. But he shakes his head anyway. “No, I don’t think so,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair. “He does know who it is, though. But I don’t think it really matters anyway. He doesn’t want to mate.”

“Really?” Hermione says. But then she tilts her head, thinking, and says, “You know, I can see that, on account of his background and all. I can imagine he wouldn’t particularly like to be bound to anything, or anyone.”

They both pause, and Harry knows they’re both thinking of that time during a party midway through their eighth year, when Draco sat down and talked to Harry and Hermione, really talked. They were all a bit drunk—maybe too drunk for such a serious conversation, as Ron had already passed out on a nearby couch—but they sat by the fire in the eighth year common room and talked about life and their parents and life under Voldemort.

It was that conversation, Harry thinks, that spurred Hermione to research her parents’ condition even more fervently than before. It was also the conversation that made Harry decide to finally mail a letter to the Dursleys to see what had come of them. Their response was fairly terse, which was honestly expected, but then Dudley wrote back separately, starting an infrequent but reassuring exchange of letters that still continues to this day.

As for Draco… Harry’s not sure what that conversation meant to him, if anything at all. But he does know that Draco started giving him a curt nod of greeting when they saw each other in the corridors, which makes him think that at least their relationship was strengthened that night.

“That’s exactly it,” Harry says, staring down at his worktable. “He doesn’t want to be forced into the whole thing. So really, even if I were his mate—well. Nothing would happen.”

He allows himself one brief moment to imagine what it would be like to mate with Draco, to lie next to each other in bed every night and kiss and fuck and fall in love for the rest of their lives—God. It’s a dangerous set of thoughts, and he banishes them, locking them away so they won’t come out again. Because it won’t happen.

He’s not even Draco’s mate. And even if he was, Draco still wouldn’t want to be mated.

Hermione purses her lips. “Okay,” she says. “I just don’t want you to end up hurt, you know? Especially if he has a mate out there that he could fall in love with someday, theoretically.”

Harry lets out an involuntary shiver of jealousy. “God, I hope not,” he says, and Hermione frowns. “But I’m okay, really,” he adds. “This is just for the company, mostly. It’s not… we’re not really dating.”

“All right then,” Hermione says, but Harry can tell she still seems suspicious.

There’s a moment of silence before Harry says, “Hey, does Ron know about this? The Veela thing?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I figured Mal—Draco would prefer that it wasn’t gossiped about.”

“Good,” Harry says, relieved. “Not that I enjoy keeping things from Ron, but—it isn’t my place to tell him, you know?”

“I agree,” Hermione says, reaching over to pat Harry’s arm. “I won’t tell him either, but—we do both care about you, Harry. If you ever need to talk, I’m listening.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling. “Anyway, how are you doing, with work and all? I know it’s been stressful.”

“God, that’s an understatement,” Hermione says, looking down at the table and shaking her head. “I was going to wait to tell you all until later, but. Blaise was confirmed sick this morning.”

It’s a hard blow, even though Harry knew it was coming. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “And the others—they’re not getting better?”

“No,” Hermione says, shaking her head. “I’m really happy that you and Ron and Draco are interested in helping out, though. We can get started tonight, and hopefully I’ll—we’ll be able to solve this.”

Harry reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. “I believe in you, and I know Neville and Blaise do too. We’ll get through this.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione says, her voice wavering for a moment and her eyes going shiny. “It’s just… a lot. But I can’t stop until I find the answer.” She wipes at her face, laughing softly. “At any rate, I should probably head back to work.”

“Good luck,” Harry says, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Thanks, Harry. I’ll need it,” Hermione says, pulling a face as she stands and leaves the shop.

xXx

“Draco’s here,” Harry calls out, leading Draco into the living room the next evening.

“Oh, good,” Hermione says, leaping up from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

Ron stands too. “Hullo, Malfoy,” he says, reaching out his hand to shake.

Draco looks surprised, but he accepts it. “Hello, Weasley,” he says, looking mildly suspicious.

Ron shoves his hands in his pockets. “I figured we may as well be civil, since you’re dating—er. Shagging Harry.”

A brief flicker of amusement appears on Draco’s face, but he nods in acceptance. “I appreciate the effort, Weasley. I’ll attempt for Harry’s sake as well, and Granger’s.”

“Good, then,” Ron says, sitting back down on the sofa, and Harry and Draco head to the other one, across the coffee table from Ron.

“Thank you so much for helping out,” Hermione says as she walks back into the room carrying a tall stack of shrunken books. She sets them down on the floor, tapping them with her wand and mumbling an incantation, and immediately they stretch into a stack so high they almost reach the ceiling.

Ron grimaces. “Bloody hell, I haven’t read this many books since Hogwarts.”

“Oh, this is just the first stack,” Hermione says, smiling blithely. “I’ve already gone through and used a highlighting charm to point out the important chapters, so that should make it easier.” With that said, she turns on her heel and leaves the room, presumably to get more books.

Ron carefully Summons the topmost book of the stack, setting it down on the coffee table and flipping through it. Over half of the book is highlighted. Ron lets out a groan, mutters something about ‘doing it for love’, and starts to read as Harry lets out a snicker.

“I suppose I’ll read for a bit too,” Draco says, Summoning down a pair of books.

He hands one to Harry, and Harry takes it, reading the cover aloud. “‘A Primer on Muggle Genetics.’ Interesting.”

“Do you know anything about Muggle science?” Draco asks, opening his own book to the first colored section.

“No,” Harry admits. “You?”

“Only as much as I had to learn to work at St. Mungo’s. Which really isn’t much,” Draco adds as an afterthought.

Harry snorts. It seems like they all have a lot to learn if they want to understand what’s going on here.

Hermione brings two more stacks of books in before she too immerses herself in reading, and they spend several hours poring over books, the three men occasionally asking Hermione for definitions of things like ‘DNA’ and ‘antibodies’. Hermione, being both the faster reader and far more knowledgeable on the subject, goes through her small selection of books much more quickly than the others, so she’s done with three in the time it takes Harry to finish the highlighted selections in one.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Harry asks. He’s just been taking brief notes on each of the sections in hopes that it might help later on.

“I’m mainly trying to get the most accurate representation of Muggle genetics as possible,” Hermione explains. “I’ve read a lot of scientific papers, but I want to make sure I’m clear on the background before I begin designing spells, and even then I’m not sure it’s possible—I’d have no idea what to target.”

“So you don’t usually work with this DNA material?” Draco asks, holding his place in his book with a finger.

“No, most of my Muggle treatments have dealt with modifying proteins,” Hermione tells him. “It’s a bit easier—lots of wizards and witches can do it, actually. Animagi, for instance. Their DNA doesn’t change when they transform, even though the proteins in their bodies do, at least for a while. It’s very complex on a biological scale, and it takes a ton of magic to be able to Transfigure all those proteins, even for a short while. That’s part of why it’s such a hard skill to learn.”

“I take it there’s a reason you can’t target the proteins for this illness, then?” Draco probes further.

Hermione makes a face. “I’ve already tried, and I don’t know if it’s possible. See, the virus isn’t targeting proteins at all—it’s targeting the DNA, and breaking it down.” She pulls out a piece of parchment to illustrate her words as she speaks. “Muggles have 23 pairs of chromosomes. Wizards and witches actually have an extra small pair—that’s where all of the genes dealing with magical core creation and maintenance are. This virus is doing something to destroy that extra set of chromosomes, but only in Purebloods.” She shakes her head, sighing. “I can only assume that there’s some small difference in the Pureblood genome that causes the virus to be able to recognize it, but I have no idea how to go about finding the exact location—there’s so much variance in that extra chromosome pair as it is.”

“Blimey, that’s complicated,” Ron says, rubbing his forehead. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you, ‘Mione.”

“And me, as well,” Draco says, picking up a quill and jotting down some notes. “The good news is that your explanation may have given me a few ideas on how to create a potion for core regeneration.”

“Really?” Hermione says, her face lighting up.

“I’ll have to test them all, of course, which could take a month or more,” Draco cautions, but Hermione still looks overjoyed.

“Still,” she says, “That’s better news for the patients than I’ve heard in the last two weeks. Which says something about the state of the Healing department right now—no doubt my coworkers will be happy to hear that too.”

Draco actually smiles then, although he hides his face in his book as he does it.

“By the way,” Hermione says. “Would you all mind if I recorded your genetic information? Just to test my methods on, so if there really are big differences between Pureblood and non-Pureblood DNA, I’ll be able to pick them up by comparing the samples.”

“Sure,” Harry says, and Draco nods.

“It won’t hurt, will it?” Ron says, scrunching his nose.

“No, it’s just a simple scan,” Hermione says, readying her wand. She scans all three of them, then does something tricky that ends with three long coils of magic corked up in separate stoppered vials.

“Looks like memories,” Harry comments.

“It’s a similar method of capture,” Draco tells him. “At least, I assume you’re utilizing the Dodson 1465 materialization algorithm?” he addresses Hermione.

Hermione’s eyes light up. “Precisely,” she says. “I’m impressed.”

Harry grins over at Draco, who’s busying himself with taking more notes from his book. But even though Draco is looking away from him, Harry can tell he’s pleased.

Later, after Hermione and Ron have gone to bed since they both head to work early in the morning, Harry finally finishes his book and sets it down on the coffee table along with his scroll of notes. “Merlin, I feel like I’m cramming for the NEWTS again,” he mumbles, leaning back against the sofa.

“I suppose you’ll have to kick me out soon, yes?” Draco asks, bookmarking his own book with a spell.

Harry swallows. He wants to invite Draco to stay over, but.

Maybe next time.

“Probably,” he says. “But first—you should know that Hermione knows. About the Veela thing.”

Far from being surprised, Draco lets out a short laugh. “I thought she might,” he says, smoothing out his robes. “She gave me a couple of weird looks when I first started working at the hospital, so I assumed she knew something was different. I didn’t get it confirmed until now, though.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Harry says, and Draco shakes his head. “I explained to her about—about us, too.”

“It probably better that she knows,” Draco says. “She’s far too perceptive to hide something like this from anyway, if I’m not wrong.”

“No, that’s definitely true,” Harry says, laughing.

Without thinking, he leans over, putting his arm around Draco.

Draco looks at him, eyebrows raising. “Potter,” he says, and it sounds cautionary.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Harry says, even though now that he’s said it, he really, really wants to.

He can feel Draco relax. “Okay,” Draco says, and then he leans into Harry, shifting on the couch so that they’re closer.

Harry closes his eyes and just breathes, letting himself feel Draco’s warmth against his side. This close, he can smell Draco, an unnameable scent that he realizes he’s smelled during brief moments all through his time at Hogwarts, and most definitely back in that broom closet.

“I should leave before I fall asleep,” Draco says after a few moments.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” Harry says quietly, and then he flushes, sitting up and pulling his arm away. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

“It’s fine, Potter,” Draco says, and then he reaches over and takes Harry’s hand, tugging him up off of the couch. “It’s nice to be here. You and your friends are—pleasant to be around, actually. My flat is rather lonely, in comparison,” he admits, tugging at the cuffs of his robes.

“You can come over whenever you’d like, you know,” Harry says, happiness brimming in his chest.

Draco laughs softly, his lips quirking into a smile. “That’s kind of you,” he says. “I shouldn’t take advantage of your hospitality, though. Especially since we’re—you know. Not really dating.”

“Right,” Harry says, his throat suddenly tight. God, he wishes they were.

He wants Draco to keep looking at him like this forever.

And fuck, did he really just think that to himself?

It seems he’s far, far more invested in this than he’d expected to be. But Draco holds his hand all the way until they part at the front door, and Harry stands in the entryway long after the door is closed and locked, remembering how it felt to have Draco touching him.

xXx

They spend the whole week meeting at Harry’s each night, reading various papers and textbooks and having complex discussions of magical theory that Harry and Ron tend to get lost in halfway through. Then it’s just Draco and Hermione, off on some Arithmancy tangent that Harry can’t even begin to follow.

And even then, they haven’t begun to find anything useful.

“There’s no point in this!” Hermione exclaims, dropping her book on the table. “None of this is going to tell us what we need.”

Harry and Ron both stare at her in horror. Even when her parents hadn’t yet recovered their memories, she’d still sworn by research. The fact that she’s damning it now is more than a little alarming.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks tentatively.

“It’s just—even the Muggles haven’t devised a way to change genes in already-developed humans. And the magical chromosome has never been mapped out because half of the Healers out there don’t even know it exists—it’s just. It’s hopeless,” Hermione says, staring at the floor.

Ron reaches over and rubs her back. “There, there, ‘Mione. I’m sure you’ll get it,” he says reassuringly.

“I’m just so worried about time,” Hermione says, brows knitting together. “The first patients are getting sicker, and I wasn’t even able to find a way to slow down the disease, let alone stop it. This virus is really good at multiplying out of control, even when I try to Vanish it, and that’s risky in the first place. And there are other Healers working on it too—none of us has found anything helpful at all.”

“I know this may sound harsh,” Draco says, “But worrying about it isn’t going to help you at all. If you really want to fix this, you can’t let your emotions or stress get in the way.”

Hermione breathes a deep sigh, and for a moment, she trembles like a leaf. But then she shakes her head, looking up at him. “You’re right. I should—I should be researching right now,” she says, and moves to pick up her book.

“No, hold on,” Draco says. Hermione looks up, surprised. “You’re tired. We’re all tired—we’ve been researching for hours each night, and you’ve been working on this far longer than that. You need to do something relaxing for a change.”

Hermione blinks. “I do?”

“I think that sounds like a good idea, actually,” Ron says, smoothing his hand up and down Hermione’s back. “I’m bloody tired of researching, you know, and I bet even you are, ‘Mione. Why don’t we go to the pub?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, worry creeping back onto her face. “I could be reading right now.”

“We haven’t even eaten dinner yet,” Harry points out. “Might as well go for a drink while we’re at it. And Draco’s right. You deserve a break.”

Hermione thinks about it, then nods slowly. “Okay. Just for tonight,” she says, giving them a small smile.

It’s a good idea, as it turns out. Harry hadn’t realized just how stressed he was until they were each a drink in, relaxing at a corner table at the Leaky. And Hermione looks lighter too—he saw her laughing with Ron just a moment ago, as they went up to buy another round.

“It’s a shame Gin and Pansy couldn’t make it,” Harry tells Draco, watching as Hermione and Ron giggle about something at the bar.

“It was quite short notice, after all,” Draco says, toying with his empty glass. “At any rate, I haven’t told Pansy about us yet. I reckon she’ll explode.”

Harry’s heart warms irrationally at the word ‘us’. “Explode in a good way or a bad way?” he asks.

Draco shrugs. “Probably both.”

Harry laughs, reaching over and taking Draco’s hand.

They drink the round that Hermione and Ron bring back, then another—and by that point, all four of them are drunk, or close to it.

It’s nice, to be here with his best friends and with Draco. He and Draco have moved their chairs ever so slightly closer over the course of the night, as they’ve tried each other’s pints and leaned in to talk over the din of the bar.

Harry doesn’t want it to end.

Of course, the moment he thinks that, Draco does the polar opposite.

“Potter,” Draco says, nudging Harry’s elbow, and Harry turns away from the conversation Ron and Hermione are having—he’d only been half listening anyway.

“Yeah?” Harry says. Distantly, he’s aware that maybe he shouldn’t be staring into Draco’s eyes like this, but Harry’s drunk and Draco’s eyes are so pretty, like the sky in the middle of a cloudy day, and Draco’s lips are right there—

“I was thinking of leaving,” Draco says.

Oh. Harry swallows.

He doesn’t want Draco to leave.

God.

“Are you good to Apparate?” Harry asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“Too much beer for that, probably. I was going to take the Floo.”

“You hate the Floo,” Harry points out.

Draco snorts. “I don’t really have any other option.”

“Sure you do,” Harry says, feeling reckless. “Stay at mine.”

His flat is only a short walk away. That’s the only reason, right?

Draco’s eyes widen. “Potter…”

“You can sleep on the sofa,” Harry offers. “Or I can, and you can have my bed.”

“So chivalrous,” Draco says, snorting. But then he stands, tugging Harry up as well. “I suppose if I must.”

“Great,” Harry says, then turns to Ron and Hermione. “Are you all right if we leave?”

“Yeah, ‘s fine,” Ron says, wrapping his arm around Hermione, and Hermione giggles. “We’re gonna stay and sober up a bit.”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, and then he and Draco tug their jackets on and leave.

There’s a brisk breeze blowing and Harry's coordination is a little off, so Harry tells himself that’s the reason he’s huddling as close as he can to Draco as they walk. But Draco’s thoughts seem to be far away, even as they move closer to Harry’s flat.

So Harry has no distraction from the fact that he wants to kiss him, has wanted to kiss him for weeks. The longing is particularly strong now, pulsing in his chest with every step they take, and Harry feels like he might burn up from the heat in his chest as Draco finds his hand.

“I’ll sleep in your bed,” Draco decides, as they walk into Harry’s flat.

“All right,” Harry says. “Just let me grab a blanket for the sofa, then.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Draco says, looking nervous. “Your bed’s big enough for both of us, right?”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “Um—er, yeah, of course. I just didn’t think…”

“We’re not going to have sex,” Draco says all in a rush. “I mean. I thought it might be nice to just—sleep together. But if that’s weird, we don’t have to,” he hastens to add.

“No, it’s not weird,” Harry says, beckoning toward his room. “I’m glad you offered.”

“Because you’re a sap,” Draco says, pushing past Harry and into Harry’s bedroom.

“Hey! You’re the one who had the idea,” Harry points out, grinning.

Draco crosses the room to sit on Harry’s bed, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me this wasn’t what you were thinking when you invited me over to stay the night.”

“Maybe a little,” Harry admits, reaching into his chest of drawers. “Do you need clothes to sleep in?”

“No, I’m fine,” Draco says. “I sleep nude.”

Harry turns to stare at him, mouth agape. “Wait, really?”

Draco dissolves into laughter. “No, Potter. I was joking. If you have a t-shirt I can borrow, that’ll be fine.”

“So you sleep in your pants, then,” Harry says, searching through his drawer for a plain t-shirt and tossing it to Draco.

“I figure it might get too warm otherwise,” Draco says, standing. “Is that okay?”

Harry feels warm. He’s still tipsy, and the thought of Draco in nothing but his pants and a thin t-shirt is making him flush. “Yeah. It’s okay,” he says.

“Good,” Draco says, and starts to pull his robes off.

Harry yelps and turns to face away. “You’re stripping in here?”

Draco starts laughing, and Harry turns back to look at him, scowling. “You’re the one who sounds like a prude now,” Draco says. “Can’t deal with me shirtless?”

Harry’s face goes red. “It’s just—a lot.” Because, yeah, he still wants to have sex with Draco. A lot. And seeing Draco half naked is just… too much.

“Don’t look, then,” Draco instructs, and Harry snorts and turns back around, undoing his own robes and throwing a t-shirt on while he’s at it. He’s just pulling on his pyjama bottoms when he turns and realizes Draco’s staring at him, eyes wide.

“Erm,” Harry says.

“Fuck, sorry,” Draco says, flushing as he turns away. He’s wearing Harry’s t-shirt now, and seeing him in it strikes a tender note in Harry’s heart. “I got distracted.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, crawling into the bed, and Draco crosses to the other side and climbs in next to him. Harry points his wand up at the Magi-bulb in the ceiling, flicking his wrist so that the room goes dark. Then he drops his wand on the bedside table, rolls onto his back, and looks over at Draco. “You, um. You were watching.”

“Sorry,” Draco says again. “I’ve always been a little—flirty, I suppose, when I’m drunk. I shouldn’t have looked.”

“I didn’t mind,” Harry says quickly. “It’s just—I forget, sometimes. That you… wanted to sleep with me, before.”

Draco swallows audibly. “I still do,” he says quietly. “It’s hard, sometimes. You’re—fuck.” He rolls to face away, and Harry feels the loss in his bones.

“I’m—what?” Harry asks.

“Give me a moment,” Draco says, and Harry does.

God.

All he wants to do is kiss him, really, and he can’t even have that.

Harry clenches his hands into fists, staring up at the ceiling and willing his feelings to back down before his heart breaks from the strain of them.

After a minute or two, Draco rolls back to face Harry, sighing. And then he says, almost in a whisper, “I wish I wasn’t a Veela.”

It comes out more raw than anything he’s said to Harry recently, and Harry suddenly thinks again of the heartfelt conversation they had with Hermione back in eighth year, when they were drunk just like this and talked of things that actually meant something for once.

“I didn’t used to mind,” Draco continues, voice so soft that Harry has to lean closer to hear him properly. “But spending all this time with you—it really makes me wish I was free to date whomever I wanted.”

Harry feels his heart clench. Draco—Draco may well have just said that he wishes he were dating _Harry,_ and that’s more than Harry could’ve hoped for at this point. “I wish you could too,” he says, rolling onto his side and looking into Draco’s eyes. “But—but I’m happy that you’re here with me anyway.”

Draco sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Fuck,” he says again. “Potter, why are you so—alluring?”

Harry snorts. “I dunno,” he says, feeling a bubble of giddiness spring up in his chest. “Isn’t that supposed to be your job?”

“No,” Draco says, scowling. “I try to keep it well contained, thank you very much.”

Laughing, Harry shifts, stretching his legs. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d feel like if you didn’t.”

“I wonder if I’m really keeping it all at bay,” Draco says, biting his lip. “After all—you do seem more attracted to me than I would have expected.”

“I don’t think that’s because of Allure,” Harry says, and as the words come out of his mouth, he knows instinctively that they’re true. He remembers what the Allure feels like from that first day in the shop. What he’s feeling now—it’s something different entirely. “I think I just—am really attracted to you,” he admits softly.

“You weren’t at school though,” Draco says. “Right?”

Harry flushes. “Maybe a little. In eighth year, at least. And, erm. A bit in sixth, too.”

Even in the dark, Harry can see that Draco’s eyebrows have flown up. “Really?” Draco asks. “Sixth was a bit, um. Volatile for us, as I recall.”

Laughing, Harry shakes his head. “You were hiding something,” he explains. “I guess it was kind of sexy. Besides the whole being-on-opposite-sides-of-a-war thing.”

Draco breaks into a fit of laughter. “You know, I never would have expected you to say that. I really thought you hated me.”

“I did, a bit,” Harry says. “But I still thought a bit about having sex with you. Although I didn’t really know I was into blokes yet, which is why I guess I tried not to think of it too much—but even then, I still did follow you around an awful lot.”

“I remember,” Draco says, snorting. “You weren’t subtle about it at all.”

“Not my style,” Harry says, grinning. He looks at Draco then, and now that his eyes have adjusted, he can make out Draco’s features, the silver in his eyes. Draco is pale in the moonlight, stark in contrast to the black of his shirt, lips quirked as he looks back at Harry.

He’s beautiful.

Harry has to restrain himself from shivering.

“What about you?” Harry asks. “Did you ever… fancy me?”

Draco’s lips twist. “That’s a dangerous question, Potter,” he says.

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

Rolling onto his back, Draco stares at the ceiling, heaving a sigh. “Do you know why I still call you by your surname?”

Harry shakes his head. “Habit, I thought.”

“Not truly,” Draco says. “I told you I always wanted to be friends with you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “First year on the train, right?”

“Even before that,” Draco admits. “You were famous, you know. I had posters of you in my room—well, drawings of you, as no one really knew what you looked like until you came to Hogwarts. But…” He shrugs. “I didn’t have very many friends when I was young. Greg and—and Vince were around, but not often, and Pansy and I didn’t grow close until Hogwarts. So for the longest time, I had an imaginary friend that I played with when my parents weren’t watching. I’d pretend to fly brooms with you, and have tea—it was ridiculous, I know,” he says, shaking his head.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Harry says. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“I called him Harry,” Draco says softly. “Harry Potter. I pretended we were friends for years and years.”

Harry feels stunned. “Oh,” he says.

“I know. Ludicrous, isn’t it?” Draco says, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Harry says. “I just—I never knew. I was lonely back then too, you know? I always thought you had so many friends.”

“You think?” Draco says. “I was a bit jealous of you and your trio, actually. Always together, and you genuinely liked each other, not like me and the other Slytherins back then.”

Harry reaches over, feeling for Draco’s hand, and squeezes it. Draco gives him a grateful smile and a sigh.

“Anyway,” he says, “It all ended when I met the real you, and you didn’t care to befriend me at all. I couldn’t think of you as Harry after that. It hurt too much, I suppose.”

“Oh, Draco,” Harry says, because he knows now exactly how it feels to be left by someone, especially when you want them to like you so badly it burns. “God, if I had known, I might’ve tried harder, you know?”

Draco snorts. “No, no, I was a little shite, you don’t have to pity me. That’s just—background, I guess, to the real answer to your question.”

“About fancying me?” Harry asks, heart in his throat.

“Yes,” Draco says. “See, even after that… I never really stopped thinking about you. I supposed for the longest time that I still just really wanted to be friends with you, but, well. Then I lost my virginity to Blaise in fifth year, and things all started to make sense.”

Harry stares at him, jaw falling open. “Wait. You and Blaise…?”

“There wasn’t anything between us,” Draco hurries to say. “We were good friends, and we fooled around for a while, but it was never serious.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and that makes him feel a little better, but he still can’t quite seem to tamp down the jealousy. “He’s not—your mate, is he?”

“No,” Draco says, squeezing his hand. “He’s not, don’t worry. I’d be far more distraught about him being sick if he were.” He raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, you should stop asking who my mate is, or someday you’ll run out of people and I’ll have to tell you.”

“That’s the plan,” Harry says, grinning at him when Draco gives him a look.

“Don’t push your luck, Potter,” he grumbles, and Harry laughs.

“So,” Harry says, running his thumb over Draco’s. “In that case… we’re friends now, right?”

“You could say that,” Draco says, something like a smirk on his lips, and Harry chuckles.

“If that’s the case,” Harry says, “then why can’t you call me Harry now?”

Draco’s breath hitches just the slightest bit. “It would be too—intimate,” he says quietly. “You meant too much to me, back then, and I can’t let myself start to feel—” He cuts off, shaking his head. “Because I can’t be with you, long-term. You know I can’t.”

Harry’s throat tightens so much he can’t speak for a moment. “I know,” he finally manages, even though he doesn’t _want_ to know that. He wants Draco to change his mind somehow, wants him stay, wants him to call him Harry and kiss him goodnight and hold him through the night while they sleep.

“Potter,” Draco says, voice serious. “You’re not in love with me, are you?”

Numbly, Harry shakes his head. He’s not. He’s _not._

He can’t be, or Draco will leave again.

“Okay,” Draco says. “That’s—that’s good.”

But he doesn’t sound happy about it, and that’s what makes Harry look up.

Draco looks—sad.

God.

Harry tries to ignore the way his heart is attempting to rip itself apart in his chest, reaching his hand up to smooth it across Draco’s cheek.

“Potter,” Draco says, “Please don’t. It’s—it’s too much.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, letting his hand drop. “Just… what’s wrong?”

Draco closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh. When he opens them, he’s looking at Harry with a gloomy expression. “I can’t stop wanting to kiss you,” he admits, voice rough. “I think about it all the time—isn’t that ridiculous? It’s my own fault I can’t, and yet… I want it, so badly.”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry tells him. “You can’t control your lineage, you know.”

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. “You’re right, I suppose. But—maybe if I had better self-control, then I could kiss you whenever I wanted, and we could just stop when things got too intense.”

Harry sighs, because fuck, he wants that. So much.

And—fuck it. He might as well try.

Slowly, he asks, “What if we did kiss?”

Draco stares at him. “Potter…”

“Just once,” Harry adds quickly. “To get it out of our systems.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Potter,” Draco says, sounding half amused and half like he might just want this too.

“Well, maybe not, but still,” Harry says. “It could help.”

Draco swallows, eyes flicking down to Harry’s mouth for a brief, dizzying second. “Just—just once, then?” he asks, lips parted.

Harry nods, feeling tingly with anticipation. “And then we stop.”

Draco considers it, and Harry feels like he might burst with the longing that’s building up inside of him. Finally, Draco opens his mouth, a small smile appearing on his lips. “I suppose that would be all right.”

Harry might just die of happiness. “Okay,” he says, and he’s already grinning. “Shall we?”

“You have to stop smiling for me to can kiss you properly,” Draco chides, but he’s grinning back, and Harry laughs, pulling him closer on the bed.

Draco leans his forehead against Harry’s, warm and intimate, eyes sparkling.

Then he leans in and kisses him.

_Fuck._

It’s softer than Harry remembered, or maybe Draco’s just being gentler with him, but either way it’s everything he’s wanted in the past few days. Harry sighs, sliding his hand up Draco’s cheek—

But all too quickly, Draco sighs through his nose, pulling away.

Harry misses him already.

Draco looks at Harry then, eyes filled with something like longing, and says, “I don’t want to stop.”

Harry doesn’t really want to either. “We should,” he says anyway, because that’s better for Draco.

Draco bites his lip. “Hold still,” he instructs, and Harry does so.

And then Draco leans back in and kisses him again, softly, once, twice more.

“Oh,” Harry sighs, as Draco pulls away for good this time. He grins, feeling breathless. “Thought we were only supposed to do it once?”

“Are you complaining?” Draco asks, lips quirking. “It’s your fault anyway. You’re too tempting.”

“I don’t seem to be nearly as tempting to anyone else,” Harry points out. “So it’s at least partly your fault as well.”

“Fine, fine,” Draco says, rolling his eyes playfully. But then he looks at Harry, swallowing audibly, and slowly reaches his arm out to wrap around Harry’s waist.

“Oh, we’re cuddling now?” Harry teases, shifting so he’s closer to Draco.

“Shut up,” Draco mumbles. “I’ll move if you want.”

“No, don’t,” Harry says quickly. “Feels nice.”

Draco nods, and then he shifts closer, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. “Potter?” he says.

“Yes?” Harry asks, sliding his arm up to rest on Draco’s shoulder.

Draco takes a long time to respond. When he does, the words are muffled against Harry’s shoulder, but he can hear them loud and clear. “Do you like me?”

Fuck.

Harry stares down at him, swallowing. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Draco says, raising his head to look back at Harry. “Romantically.”

Harry sighs. There’s no use lying, not about something that he assumes is fairly obvious at this point.

And it’s not like he’s in love with him.

Not yet.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Draco is silent for a second, and then he gives a slow nod. “I thought so.”

“But,” Harry says, “I think if I didn’t like you, at least a little bit, then I wouldn’t want to be doing this.”

Draco lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Fair,” he says, and then he presses himself closer to Harry.

“And you?” Harry asks, because God, he wants to know so badly.

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Draco says, and Harry snorts and pokes him in the side.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Oh? Do I?” Draco asks, smirking, and Harry has no idea how he can manage to look sexy in this situation when Harry would sound like a bumbling fool.

“Yes, you do,” Harry says, giving him a look. “Do you like me or not, Draco?”

Harry swears he can see Draco’s ears go red, even in the moonlight. He suddenly looks vulnerable, his eyes wide, as if he’s about to tell a secret that he doesn’t want anyone to know. “I—yes,” he says, looking away. “Very much.”

Harry smiles, his heart fluttering madly in his chest. “Oh,” he says. “I—wow.”

“You can’t say you’re surprised,” Draco says, furrowing his brow.

Laughing, Harry shakes his head. “I am, a little.”

“I basically told you I’ve fancied you for years, and yet you’re still shocked?” Draco says, grinning at him mischievously. “Merlin, you must be just as thick as I always used to think you were.”

“Hey!” Harry protests. “You never said you fancied me _recently_ —you just talked about how you felt back at Hogwarts.” He lets out a sigh, his voice softening as he looks away. “And anyway, I thought that all changed after we snogged at the end of eighth year. You—you always avoided me after that.”

“You noticed?” Draco asks, seeming surprised.

“Of course I did,” Harry says. “I thought you were—I dunno. Disgusted or something.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco says. “The only reason I avoided you was because—” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “Because I wanted you too much.”

“God, really?” Harry says. He yearns to kiss him then, to pull him close, to press their bodies together again, but—he can’t.

“Yes,” Draco says. “I knew I was a Veela. And I almost let it go too far when we kissed back then, you know. I couldn’t let that happen again.”

Harry nods in understanding. “I’m glad I at least know why you left now,” he says honestly. “I always wondered.” It’s an understatement. He’d obsessed over it just like every other time he’d obsessed about the man in front of him.

Draco shifts closer to Harry. “I did want to be with you. I… still want to be with you.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. “I do too,” he admits. “But… I’ll take whatever you can give me. Even just this. I… I like it. A lot.”

“Yeah,” Draco says, a small smile on his lips as his eyes drift shut. “Me too.”

They fall asleep soon after, and Harry feels warm and content.

He’s not expecting to be woken up only a few hours later. He looks around, trying to figure out what had awakened him, when he sees Draco, also wide awake.

“Hey,” Harry says, rolling over to face him. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” Draco says. “I feel a bit weird, though.”

“Need a hangover potion?” Harry asks.

“No, I don’t think it’s that.” Draco props himself up on one arm, staring at Harry, and bites his lip. “Fuck, I want to kiss you.”

Harry laughs softly. “Did that already,” he points out.

“So?” Draco asks.

Harry shrugs. “Want to?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and leans in.

Their lips are nearly touching when Draco bolts upright. “Fuck—I have to go.”

Alarmed, Harry sits up too. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

Draco shakes his head, already pulling his robes on. “Sorry, erm. The suppressants are wearing off. I didn’t even think about it—I usually don’t need to take them again until the morning, but—”  He cuts off, looking nervous. “I don’t want to accidentally use my Allure on you. I think that might end quite badly.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and even though he understands, his heart still pangs in distress at the fact that Draco’s leaving.

“Sorry,” Draco says again. “But I’ll see you tomorrow? I’m not working.”

“I’ll be at the shop,” Harry says, and Draco nods and leaves.

Harry lays back down, feeling colder than he should be. Then he rolls over, puts his face in the pillow that Draco had laid his head on, and breathes in the scent of the man he wishes was in love with him.

xXx

Harry has a terrible time sleeping for the rest of the night, so much so that he’s awake and out of bed early enough to catch Hermione bustling about.

“Morning,” she says, and then, with a rueful smile, “You wouldn’t happen to have any hangover potion about, would you?”

“I do, actually,” Harry says, Summoning it with a grin.

“Thank goodness,” Hermione says, taking it when he hands it to her and uncorking the vial. She swallows it down, grimacing at the taste, and sets the vial down next to the sink for washing. “I’ve put the kettle on. Tea should be ready in a moment.”

Harry nods gratefully and busies himself with making toast, grabbing the marmalade and butter from the fridge while he’s at it. When he’s done, he takes a seat across from Hermione, setting the toast in the middle of the table and accepting the mug of tea she pushes toward him.

“So,” Hermione says, adding sugar to her tea. “Did Draco stay over?”

Harry flushes. “Er. Yes. Sort of? He ended up having to leave.”

“I thought I heard the door open,” Hermione says, nodding. “I assumed I was dreaming. Why? Was everything okay?”

“It was fine,” Harry says. “Good, even. I mean—we didn’t shag, so don’t give me that look,” he tells her, and she laughs. “But he realized that his suppressant potion for, um, you-know-what was wearing off, so he had to go home and take it.”

“Oh, I see,” Hermione says, her brows furrowing in thought. “You know, there’s a spell we use around the hospital that might be useful to him, if he’s worried about that.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, intrigued.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Hermione says, picking up her wand. She teaches him the wand movement as well as the incantation, pausing to correct his wrist position. “There. Now you can teach it to him. It’s a suppressant spell of sorts—it blocks transmission of viruses and bacteria, but I bet it would work for pheromones too.”

“That’s clever of you,” Harry says. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

Hermione beams. “It’s no problem,” she says. “I’ve got to get to work now, but I’ll see you for research later?”

“Sure,” Harry says, watching as Hermione spells a good-bye note for Ron onto a scrap of parchment on the table and then heads out the door.

Already, an idea is forming in his head as he thinks about the spell, one that makes him smile as he puts his coat on and heads to the shop.

xXx

“Hullo,” Draco says, yawning as he lets the curtain drop closed behind him. “I apologize for last night. I know that was a bit—abrupt.”

“That’s all right,” Harry says. Then he grins. “You kissed me, so I suppose we’re even.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Shush, Potter,” he says, and Harry laughs.

“Come sit down,” Harry says. “I have something for you.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Proposing already?” he says jokingly, sitting down in his chair. “Oh, whatever will I do, the Chosen One is asking for my hand in marriage!”

Harry bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Shut up,” he says. “We’re not even dating.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you pulled out some grandiose gesture to try to woo me,” Draco says, smirking, and Harry snorts.

“Apparently I don’t have to woo you, if last night is anything to go by.”

Draco’s cheeks go pink. “In my defense, I wasn’t entirely sober.”

“So were you lying?” Harry asks.

“Well… no,” Draco admits.

“Good,” Harry says. “I thought I’d have to dose you with Veritaserum or something.”

Draco’s face suddenly goes pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, no, I was joking,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m glad,” Draco says, looking relieved. He looks away. “There are things I really don’t want to tell you.”

Harry swallows. “Like what?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d tell you?” he asks, and Harry laughs.

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging.

Looking away for a moment, Draco twists his lips. “I really don’t want to tell you who my mate is,” he admits quietly.

And that makes sense. “It’s probably better that I don’t know,” Harry tells him. Even though the curiosity is a constant itch in the back of his mind, the jealousy that sits next to it is a much larger concern.

Draco nods, leaning back in the chair. “You said you have something to give me?”

“Oh! Yes,” Harry says, pulling a small parcel out of his drawer. He’s glad he thought to wrap it at the last minute as he hands it to Draco. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Draco says, turning it over so he can pull apart the paper wrapping.

Inside is a plain leather banded bracelet with a metal clasp. “It’s charmed with something Hermione taught me,” Harry says. “I dunno if it’ll do anything, but you should try it and see anyway.”

“You’re not trying to curse me, are you?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow as he slips the bracelet onto his wrist.

“You wouldn’t be putting that on right now if you really believed that,” Harry points out.

“I suppose you’re right,” Draco says, and then he spells the clasp closed. “Oh—!”

“What happened?” Harry asks.

Draco blinks in surprise, eyes wide. “I—normally there’s always the urge to let my Allure out when I’m around people, even on the suppressant, but I can barely feel it now. Merlin, what is this?”

Harry grins. “It’s some sort of pheromone suppressor,” he explains. “Hermione said it tracks fairly tightly to your body—usually they use it for contagious patients. She wondered if it might work for some of your Veela symptoms.”

“Fuck, that’s brilliant,” Draco says, and then he grins too. “Don’t let me forget to thank her tonight. And the bracelet was your idea, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, feeling suddenly nervous. “Is it okay? I can Transfigure it into something different if you don’t want a bracelet, or—”

“No, no, I like it,” Draco interrupts him, smiling down at his wrist. “I’d worry about how effective it is without the suppressants, but even so, it’s nice to have a backup.”

“I’m pleased it’s working,” Harry says.

“Me too,” Draco says. “Thank you, really.”

Harry smiles at him, heart fluttering like the wings of a pixie in his chest. “It’s nothing, really.”

A sly expression appears on Draco’s face, and he smirks. “Did you do this so you’d have a better chance of kissing me?”

Harry’s eyebrows raise. “No, I didn’t even think of that, actually.” He pauses for a second. “But, er. Would that work?”

Draco snorts, standing. “Come here,” he instructs, and Harry stands and goes to him. “You’re as subtle as ever,” Draco says.

“I can’t help it,” Harry says, shrugging. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Draco says. “It makes it easier, actually. I never have to guess with you.”

“Sounds like it’s a good thing then,” Harry says, smiling.

“Maybe,” Draco says, stepping closer and sliding his arms loosely around Harry’s neck.

This time, it’s Harry who leans in, pressing his lips to Draco’s. Draco makes a small noise of satisfaction and pulls Harry closer, deepening the kiss, and Harry has to restrain himself from grinning lest he ruin it with teeth.

“Fuck,” Draco says, pulling away after a few moments, but he doesn’t go far. He looks down at the bracelet on his wrist. “This is probably dangerous.”

“Is it?” Harry asks, breathing hard from all the kissing.

“I can’t feel any of the normal Veela urges,” Draco says. “But it could fail—not that I don’t trust your charms, but I do want to be careful.”

“We can keep kissing until it fails, then,” Harry says, and Draco laughs.

“Still trying to get into my trousers, I see.”

“That’s what you get for wearing robes so tight that I can see—well. Everything,” Harry says.

“Everything?” Draco says, and then he slides his hands down to Harry’s waist and slowly presses their hips together.

Oh. Fuck.

Draco’s hard.

This might be the hottest thing Harry’s ever experienced in his entire life.

He nearly groans. “Fuck,” he mumbles, blushing. He can feel himself growing hard in response, and he knows Draco will be able to feel it too— _God_.

“See what you do to me?” Draco says, eyes half-lidded and face flushed. “It’s terribly inconvenient, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one interrupting me at work,” Harry points out.

Draco laughs and leans in to kiss him again, just once. “I think you like it.”

“Maybe I do,” Harry says, leaning his head against Draco’s. “But so do you.”

“Yeah,” Draco says. And then, “Merlin, you’ve turned me into a sap, haven’t you?”

Harry laughs.

xXx

Harry doesn’t get much work done that day. Draco spends the rest of the afternoon in the shop with him, watching him make charms and occasionally distracting him with conversation.

They don’t kiss again, but even so, Harry’s never felt happier.

He feels like he’s walking on a cloud, all the way until he gets an Owl just as he’s sent Seb home for the evening.

“Oh, it’s from—Pansy?” Harry says, squinting at the parchment.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He can feel himself blanch.

“Fuck, no,” he says, shaking his head.

“What? What is it?” Draco asks, looking concerned.

Harry looks up at him, still holding the letter, his hand trembling. “It’s Gin,” he says. “She’s caught it—she’s sick.”

xXx

Pansy and Draco have to stay in the waiting room along with the rest of the Weasleys who have shown up to visit, but Harry and Hermione, being the only non-Purebloods, are allowed to enter Ginny’s room. “Hey,” Ginny says, seeming cheerful as she slides out of her hospital bed, but Harry can tell from her face that she’s been crying. “I’m so glad you two are here.”

She hugs Hermione first, then Harry, and Harry pats her on the back. “How are you doing?”

Ginny shrugs, letting out a deep sigh. “Awful, but thanks for asking.” She scrunches her nose. “I feel weak all over, they’ve told me to refrain from using my wand, and I can’t see my girlfriend or my family—and thank God I was on a Quidditch retreat, or I might have infected them all. Half the team’s got it. We’re out for the season,” she says, frowning as if that’s the worst outcome to all of this.

She doesn’t mention that they might be out for much longer than the rest of the season.

Hermione lets out a despairing sigh. “God, first Neville and Blaise, and now you—this is awful,” she says, looking stricken. “If only I had found the cure for this damned thing weeks ago!”

“No, Hermione,” Ginny says. “Please don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.” She wrinkles her nose. “And despite the shite that’s in the Prophet, it’s not some other Muggleborn’s curse either, right?”

“There’s no evidence to support that all,” Hermione says, shaking her head. “It’s just a trick of fate.”

“Then there’s no one to blame,” Ginny says. “Anyway, I guess I’m stuck here for a while, but I suppose I’ll get out someday. Either all the Purebloods in the world will get sick and it won’t be considered a contagion anymore, or you’ll crack it and we’ll all be cured. And I’m definitely betting on the latter,” she adds, grinning fiercely.

“Thanks, Ginny,” Hermione says, discreetly wiping her eyes. “I promise I’m trying my best.”

“Nev and Blaise are in the next room over, so I’ve got company, at least,” Ginny says, patting Hermione on the shoulder. “It’s not so bad in here either. There are enough of us now that they’ve started doing little community events, and there’s a flying session on Friday that I’m excited for—for those of us that can still fly, that is.” She sits back on the hospital bed, dangles her legs over the edge, and pastes on a smile.

More than ever, Harry appreciates Ginny’s resilience as they both hug her again. He’s known her to hold out through almost anything, whether it be war or heartbreak or the death of a brother.

He just hopes from the bottom of his heart that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel for her to hold out for.

The moment they leave Ginny’s room, a worried-looking older woman in a lab coat rushes up to Hermione. “Healer Granger,” she says, and then drops her voice to a whisper, but Harry’s near enough that he can hear it anyway. “You’ve got to come quickly. We’ve just had some new patients admitted who say they think they caught the disease at some sort of wizarding convention earlier this week, and there were hundreds of people attending—we may be about to have a lot more patients on our hands.”

“Shite,” Hermione mutters. “All right—Harry, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to leave,” she says, and Harry nods and gives her a quick hug goodbye.

She bustles off down the hallway, and Harry stares after her for a moment, hoping from the bottom of his heart that she’s on the brink of solving this.

When he returns to the waiting room, he expects to see everyone there, but he’s surprised when it’s just Draco.

“Hullo,” Harry says. “Where did the Weasleys go? And Pansy?”

Draco makes a face. “Some nurse came and told them they have to leave, that there’s no use sitting here when they can’t even visit. She only stopped bothering me when I showed her my Mungo’s ID.”

“That’s rather annoying,” Harry says, sitting down in the chair next to him. “How’s Pansy?”

“She’s holding up okay,” Draco says. “I think it helps that Ginevra isn’t the sort of person to get too frazzled by things. It’s been good for her—Pansy, I mean.”

“Ginny seems happy with her,” Harry says. “Much happier than she would’ve been with me, I reckon.”

“That’s a shame,” Draco says. “You’re… not bad company.”

Harry grins at him. “Oh?”

Draco rolls his eyes, standing. “Come on, Potter, let’s get out of this wretched hospital.”

“Yeah? Where are we going?” Harry asks, standing and following him down the hallway.

“Your place,” Draco says. “All of Granger’s books are there.”

“Does that mean you can be convinced to stay the night?” Harry asks slyly.

Draco’s ears go red. “I might just have brought an extra vial of my potion with me, so I suppose you’re in luck.”

Harry grins, looking around to make sure no one is watching before linking their fingers together. “Brilliant,” he says, and they step out of the hospital into the blustery fall night.

xXx

Harry’s awakened at the crack of dawn the next morning by a Floo call from George.

“Oh, thank Merlin you’re awake. I was about to try and Apparate into your room,” George says, and then his eyebrows shoot up as Draco stirs next to Harry. “Oh, shite, you’ve got someone over—oh. Malfoy?”

“Hullo,” Draco says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I suppose I’ll go sit in the living room then, before this gets too awkward.”

Before Harry or George can get another word in, Draco gets up and pads out of Harry’s room, Summoning his robes as he goes.

George gives Harry a slow nod. “Interesting,” he says, a smirk growing on his face. “I can see it, though.”

Harry squints at him blearily, finally shoving his glasses on his face so he can see properly. “Did you need something?” he asks, embarrassed to be caught.

“Fuck, that’s right,” George says. “You don’t get the Prophet, do you?”

Harry shakes his head. “Did something happen?”

“You could say that,” George mutters, sounding none too happy, as he shifts so he can stick an arm through with the morning paper.

Harry hurries and takes it so that it won’t catch fire—Floo powder flames are significantly less hot than real fire, but that doesn’t mean they can’t do strange things to flammable material—and then he quickly skims over the headline.

His jaw drops open as he reads, ‘URGENT: ALL MAGICAL NEIGHBORHOODS ON HIGH ALERT IN WAKE OF OVERNIGHT VIRUS EPIDEMIC,’ and then the sub-headline, _‘Officials considering the closing of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade shops.’_

“Merlin, they can’t be serious,” Harry says, flicking his eyes to the paper name. He half expects it to be The Quibbler, or some kind of joke paper that George has made as a prank, but no, it’s the Prophet, signature logo and all.

“I got to the shop early this morning and found a notice on the door saying that an enforced closing might be necessary,” George says, his expression mottled by the fire. “It’s a miracle they’ve managed to keep this thing out of Hogwarts, or no doubt they’d try and close the school too—as it is, there isn’t any traffic allowed in or out.”

“Blimey,” Harry says, shaking his head. “When do we find out for good? This is going to be awful for business.”

“I’m not sure,” George says, frowning. “Thankfully I’ve got enough saved up that I’ll still be able to pay my employees and all, but I bet the smaller shop owners are out of luck.”

Harry nods slowly, still processing, and looks over the rest of the article. It discusses the very same wizarding convention he heard the Mediwitch tell Hermione about last night, citing hundreds of new victims with more expected very soon. And indeed, Diagon is in danger of closing down as soon as next weekend. He shivers. It reminds him of when Voldemort had been in his prime, when people only travelled in hunched-over, scared groups and the shopping districts felt like a ghost town. “At least they’ll still be allowing Gringotts visits,” he says, setting the paper down on the bed.

“I think people would be pretty upset if they couldn’t access their money,” George says. “Anyway, I’ve got to go—Angelina’s calling me.” He grins wickedly, winking as he says, “Have fun with Malfoy!”

Harry makes a face and bids him farewell as he disappears from the flames. Then he stares at the paper for another moment before shaking his head and heading to the living room.

He’s surprised to find Draco and Ron sitting there, having a civil conversation.

“I just can’t believe it. She’s my little sister…” Ron shakes his head.

“She’ll be okay,” Draco says, although there’s worry lining his face. “She’s a strong woman.”

“I sure hope so,” Ron says, sighing. “Oh, hullo, Harry.”

“Morning,” Harry says, looking between Draco and Ron. “Have you heard the news about Diagon?”

“Yeah, we were sent a briefing update about it last night. I was just talking to Malfoy about it,” Ron says. “Robards isn’t happy. If it actually happens, it’s going to take a good chunk of the DMLE to go through and make sure businesses are actually closing up. Although Hermione thinks I should stay home to begin with, if I can get away with it.” He makes a face. “I’m not sure if I want to stay home, though.”

“Honestly? It’s probably a good idea,” Draco says. “Especially with how fast this thing is spreading. If I weren’t trying to help cure it, I’d have half a mind to stop going in too.”

“Really?” Ron says. “I guess I should consider it, then.”

“It would make ‘Mione a lot less worried,” Harry says. “And anyway, the DMLE has enough non-Purebloods that it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“You know what? You’re right,” says Ron. “They can cover it. I’ll Owl Robards now.”

Harry’s relieved too as he watches Ron go. He’s worried enough as it is about Ginny and Neville and Blaise, and he couldn’t bear to add Ron to that list.

He sighs. “I wish you could stop going to work too,” he tells Draco.

“My lab’s there,” Draco says, shrugging. “I don’t interact with patients much, so I’m probably safe. Plus Mungo’s is loaded with automatic sterilization charms. It’s more important to try and finish my potion.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, even though he still feels uneasy about it all. He turns toward the hallway. “I’m going to take a quick shower, if that’s all right?”

“Well… I suppose,” Draco says, smirking at him. “I’d like to use it after you though, if you don’t mind.”

Harry laughs, nodding, and goes to get a towel and change of clothes.

He has mixed feelings as he shampoos his hair and washes himself off. The disease is so prevalent in their lives right now, and it’s bloody terrifying. He’s stunned at the numbers of people who have caught it—not to mention that Hermione’s stress is contagious and currently trying to eat him alive.

Not to mention he’s really fucking worried that Draco will get sick too.

But still…

Draco’s _here_. Harry’s honestly still overjoyed at the fact that Draco even wants to spend this much time with him. He’s here, and he slept in Harry’s bed last night, arms around him, pressed against his body—and Harry had to hide his erection for half the night, but that’s fine.

He’s happy enough to have this.

He sighs, rinsing his hair off. He really shouldn’t be thinking these kinds of thoughts, because it’s these kinds of thoughts that lead to being in love.

Which he’s not.

Definitely.

He turns the water off, drying off and then wrapping himself in the towel. He steps out into the hall, casting a spell to defog his glasses, and walks down the hall to his room.

“You can go ahead now,” he tells Draco, motioning to the shower, and Draco nods and heads into the loo, shutting the door behind him.

It’s only after a few minutes of looking around his room that Harry realizes he forgot his clothes in the loo. He could just get a new change of clothes from his drawers, but he doesn’t really want to, especially since he’d picked out his favorite red sweater to wear earlier.

He’ll just go in and grab them from the bathroom.

Maybe it’s a bad idea, but if he does it quickly enough, Draco won’t even notice. Anyway, the glass wall of the shower is already fogged from when Harry was in there, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

Quietly, he walks down the hallway and listens to make sure the shower is running before he pushes the bathroom door open. He checks quickly that Ron isn’t around and then he goes in, heading past the shower to grab his clothing from the counter—

And that’s when he hears Draco let out a soft moan.

Fuck. Maybe he’s only imagined it.

But as he turns to escape, he hears it again, the low sound of Draco’s voice, and Harry’s breath hitches involuntarily.

 _Fuck._ He’s almost certain that Draco could hear that.

“I know you’re there, Potter,” Draco says, confirming his suspicions, and Harry blushes brightly.

“I—fuck, sorry,” he says, embarrassed. God, he’s going to have to look Draco in the eye later, and Draco will know that Harry knew that he was getting off—

“Either leave or close the door,” Draco says.

Harry’s mouth drops open, a spark of lust starting to burn between his hips. “Erm, you mean…?” he asks.

Draco laughs. “Either leave or close the door,” he repeats. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Harry goes and closes the door, locking it for good measure.

“Got your wand on you?” Draco asks then, and Harry nods before remembering that Draco can’t see him.

“Yes,” he says, his voice coming out croaky. He swallows, pulling his wand out.

“You can defog the glass then,” Draco says. Then, quieter, “If you want to, I mean.”

Harry shudders. God. “Are you sure that, er, this won’t hurt you or anything?”

Draco hesitates for a moment, then says, “I think it’s okay. We won’t be touching. Right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his breath coming heavier as he readies his wand. “Okay,” he says, and then he clears the glass.

Draco’s leaning against the back wall of the shower, facing Harry, staring directly at him, body glistening from the water. He has his cock in hand, stroking it slowly, and Harry lets out a soft groan at the sight.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles. He’s hard, now, harder than he was last night when he was lying beside Draco.

“You can touch yourself,” Draco says, looking away. “At least. I wouldn’t mind.”

Harry laughs breathily, letting his eyes trail over Draco’s body, all pale skin and reddened lips and grey eyes that are looking, staring at Harry again. Waiting.

Harry takes a deep breath and lets his towel drop at his feet.

Draco lets out a sigh that’s barely audible. “Fuck,” he says, and the hand on his cock momentarily stills. “You’re—Merlin.”

Harry slowly grins, letting his fingers travel down his stomach and taking his own cock in hand. “I’m what?”

“It’s unfair,” Draco says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be so bloody hot.”

Harry laughs. “You should see yourself,” he says, biting his lip. “I—I would fuck you right now. If I could, I mean.”

Draco groans softly, and Harry’s libido spikes because fuck, _he_ did that. “I wish,” Draco says. “I think about it sometimes.”

“Really?” Harry says, stomach flipping. “I… fuck. I think about it too,” he admits.

“You did say you wanted to get into my trousers,” Draco quips, and Harry laughs.

“I did,” he says, owning up to it. He steps back, leaning against the bathroom counter. “What do you think about? When you do?”

Draco goes impossibly redder. “Incredibly lewd things,” he says. “You probably don’t want to know.”

“I do,” Harry insists. “I’ll say things if you do.”

Draco shudders. “Okay,” he says, closing his eyes, stroking himself lazily. “I want to ride you,” he says. “I think about that a lot—I want to watch your face when I ride your cock.”

“Fuck, that’s—that’d be so good,” Harry says, hand speeding as he strokes himself. “I—I think a lot about when we were in that broom closet. I wanted you to fuck me then. Even if you had just—turned me against the wall and fucked me there, I would’ve.”

“Nngh,” Draco groans, and his hips buck. “Potter, don’t tell me that.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, watching as the tip of Draco’s cock disappears into his hand and then appears again. He wants to suck it, he thinks. Fuck.

“You’re going to make me think about sex whenever we’re in close proximity to a broom closet,” Draco says, glaring at him. “Very inconvenient.”

Harry lets out a burst of laughter. “Did you know you’re ridiculous?”

“I gathered that very early on in life and decided to go with it,” Draco says. “It’s your fault if you can’t deal with it.”

“I like it,” Harry says. “It makes things interesting. Also, it’s your turn.”

“Right,” Draco says, and his breath is starting to go ragged. “I’m thinking of sucking you off right now. I want—um.”

“Hmm?” Harry prompts.

Draco takes a breath. “I want you to come on my face.”

“Fuck, Draco—that’s so—hot.” Harry is starting to feel helplessly close, sweaty with the condensation in the air and desperate for release, for touch, for something like love.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Draco asks.

Harry shakes his head. “I just can’t believe that you think of these things. My daydreams aren’t nearly as—imaginative.”

“They’re still interesting to hear,” Draco says. “It’s your turn, anyhow.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and then racks his brain. “Sometimes I imagine you just—climbing on top of me, and having your way with me, and it being fine, and feeling—fuck. Really good.”

Draco groans again, and he licks his lips, taking a deep breath. “I bought a dildo recently so I could fuck myself with it while I think of you.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Harry says, and he almost comes right there. His voice is rusty when he says, “Really?”

“Yes,” Draco says, eyes fluttering shut. “I’ll get home from work, and then I finger myself open, and then I work the dildo in really slowly—I want to feel your cock when you push into me, you know—”

Harry shudders and comes. “Fuck, Draco— _Draco_ ,” he says, and he hadn’t meant to say Draco’s name but it slipped out on its own as his hips buck wildly. He spills all over his hand, looking back up just in time to see Draco tilt his head back and moan—

“ _Harry_.”

Harry’s whole world grinds to a halt. He watches Draco come, watches him slump against the wall as he spurts out into the shower, and it’s incredible.

Except that all he can think about is how it sounded when Draco said his name.

He leans against the bathroom wall and watches Draco recover, rinsing his hand off in the shower spray, all the while looking at Harry with a tentative expression on his face. But Harry can’t bring himself to say anything, because fuck.

He’d thought—dreamed, maybe, that he could get over this if they had sex. And this is as close as they can get, but—

He’s not over Draco.

He might just be in love with him.

The word echoes around in his brain—love, love, love.

He can’t be in love so quickly, can he? It’s only been a few weeks.

But they’ve known each other for half of their lives, after all.

The defogging charm is starting to wear off on the glass. Harry watches as the condensation starts to cover Draco, spreading toward the middle, and Draco stares back all the way until Harry can no longer see his face.

Then Harry takes his clothes and towel and leaves.

xXx

Draco takes longer in the shower than Harry would expect him to, and it makes Harry nervous, his stomach twisting into knots as he sits on his bed and waits.

He loves Draco.

He does, doesn’t he?

And there would be no point in denying it to himself, except that if Draco gets wind of it—he’ll leave again.

Which is something Harry truly, desperately doesn’t think he can bear. Draco’s been the high point of his life in the last few weeks, especially with this illness creeping in and destroying their lives—the high point of the past few years, quite honestly, trumping even the success of his shop. Being with Draco is incomparable to anything else.

He can’t lose him.

He’ll just keep hiding how he feels, he decides. At least until Hermione finds a cure—which might be never, he supposes, although he sure hopes that’s not the case.

Mind made up, he sits and waits for Draco.

Finally, Draco pushes the door open. He’s dressed already, in a pair of clothes Harry suspected he’s Transfigured to fit from Harry’s drawer, and he comes and sits on the bed beside Harry.

Draco looks unhappy.

Harry’s gut twists. “Are you okay?” he asks, and miraculously his voice doesn’t crack from the sudden anxiety brewing in his chest.

Instead of answering, Draco leans sideways, all the way until his head is in Harry’s lap. It’s a comforting weight, and Harry instinctively puts his hand in Draco’s hair to stroke. It’s dry—Draco must’ve charmed it—and Draco shivers as he pulls his legs up onto the bed.

After a moment, Harry tries again. “Draco?”

Draco sighs, turning his head so he can look at Harry. “Do you think we’re in too deep?”

Harry swallows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Draco cuts off for a second, shaking his head. “We’ve gotten close rather quickly, you know? And I’m just wondering if we’ve gotten _too_ close.”

Harry’s really not sure how to answer that, but he tries his best. “I think it’s okay,” he says slowly. “I like being around you. It’s nice to have company when everything’s going to shite.”

Draco nods, briefly closing his eyes. When he opens them, he looks troubled. “I told myself I wouldn’t call you by your name,” he says. “But you’re turning into the friend I always wanted you to be, and I—I don’t know what to do with that.”

A lump of emotion lodges itself in Harry’s throat, and he reaches over and finds Draco’s hand, squeezing it gently. “More than friends, I think,” he admits. “But I’m happy with you. Even like this.”

Draco looks up at him. “Are you in love with me, Potter?”

Harry tries to say no, but the word gets stuck halfway through. He clears his throat and tries again. “No,” he says.

And he’s said it many times before, but this is the first time he’s been lying.

Draco lets out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he says, and rolls away again, closing his eyes. Harry resumes stroking his hair, and he hums softly.

They stay like that for a long time.

It’s the last little bit of happiness before their world gets turned upside-down.

xXx

They spend the day researching with Ron, Owling back and forth with Hermione. Harry still doesn’t quite know what to make of the information he's finding, but every time Hermione reads his summaries she gives him an approving note and then refines the list of books he’s supposed to read, so he assumes she’s making something of it all.

When dinnertime comes, they decide to order takeaway. Harry and Draco go to pick it up together, braving the cool night air, and Draco keeps cracking jokes about their classmates back at Hogwarts, so much that Harry can barely keep a straight face when he goes to pick up their order.

It’s when they’re heading back that it happens.

Draco pulls out his wand to cast a warming charm, and it doesn’t work.

He stumbles mid-step, staring at his wand, and Harry stops three steps ahead of him, immediately alarmed. “Draco?”

Draco takes a deep breath and casts the spell again.

This time, it works.

Harry lets out an uneasy sigh. “Maybe you just didn’t do the movement quite right?” he says.

Draco nods, closing his eyes. “I really fucking hope so,” he says, and starts walking again. “If it happens again, I should go to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Harry says, even though this is the last thing he wants. God, Draco, his Draco—well, not ‘his’ in some senses of the word, but his enough that he can think that— _shite._

Draco can’t get sick.

He just can’t.

Swallowing down the sudden, intense fear that’s lodged itself into his throat, Harry hurries to follow him.

xXx

It doesn’t happen again until after dinner, when Ron asks Draco to pass him a book. Draco casts a simple Wingardium—and it fails.

Fuck.

Ron stares at Draco. “Blimey,” he says, his mouth falling open.

Draco has gone very, very pale, and Harry leans over and takes his hand. “Draco?”

“I am so, so sorry if I’ve gotten you sick,” Draco says, looking up at Ron, and Ron swallows, blanching.

“I reckon you should get to the hospital, if it is what you think it is,” Ron says, waving him on. “I’ll be all right.”

Draco nods slowly. “All right,” he says, and stands. He looks unsteady.

Harry gets up as well. “I’ll come with you,” he says, because fuck, the worry is threatening to crush him now.

But Draco shakes his head. “No need,” he says. “It’ll just be paperwork in the first few days anyhow. You can visit when that’s all done.”

As much as he wants to insist on going anyway, Harry concedes that he probably won’t even be able to see Draco for most of that time. “Okay,” he says, his voice cracking. Then he throws his arms around Draco. “Fuck,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, Potter,” Draco says. He doesn’t look okay. But still, he brings a hand up to stroke Harry’s back. “I believe in Hermione. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, heaving a breath that feels suspiciously like a sob except that there aren’t tears in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, pulling away. “I suppose you shouldn’t Apparate.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “I’ll take the Floo,” he says.

“You hate the Floo,” Harry points out, lips trembling as he tries for a smile.

Smiling back weakly, Draco says, “Dire times, Potter.” Then he gives both Harry and Ron a nod and grasps a handful of powder on the mantle, throwing it into the fire before he goes.

Slowly, Harry sinks down onto the sofa. “Fuck,” he says, covering his face.

“I’m so sorry, mate,” Ron says quietly. “He’s not been half bad lately, you know.”

Harry nods, feeling queasy. “Do you think you’ve gotten sick?”

“Hell if I know,” Ron answers. “Although Hermione did say it’s transferred by touch, and I haven’t really been touching him, so...”

Biting his lip, Harry nods. “I hope you’re okay,” he says. He kind of wants to scream, or cry, or something, but all he feels right now is numbness. “I think I’m going to go lie down.”

“Okay,” Ron says, worry showing through in his tone. “Let me know if you want some company.”

Harry nods, though he doesn’t think he’ll be taking Ron up on that offer any time soon, standing and heading to his bedroom.

Then he collapses in his bed, laying facedown for as long as he can stand. When he turns aside to breathe, tears threaten to prick at his eyes, and he has to swallow them back.

He has to stay strong. For Draco.

He lays there for a long time, staring at the wall and trying desperately to think of nothing. But vague memories of being with Draco sweep through his mind anyway, taunting him with visions of Draco’s smile, Draco’s laugh, Draco kissing him. What will happen if Draco loses his magic? And how will it interact with his Veela blood, anyway? Harry imagines a future in which Draco is forced to mate just to keep a stake in the magical world, and then he pushes that thought away. He’s thinking worst case scenarios, after all.

Hermione will cure him.

She has to, for Draco and Ginny and Neville and countless others that Harry’s never met.

He hears the front door open hours later, hears Ron and Hermione talking, and he knows it must be about Draco from their hushed tones but he can’t bear to hear it. So he tries the best he can to fall asleep.

Eventually, it works.

xXx

Harry wakes late the next morning to an owl tapping on his window. He takes the letter and then it flies away immediately—no return requested then, and no owl treat either.

It’s from Draco, he realizes, and he wonders if Draco’s angry at him for taking so long to come by and visit.

But his heart sinks to his stomach when he opens the scroll and realizes that it’s several paragraphs long. Immediately, he’s alarmed. The few Owls he’s gotten from Draco have been quick, snarky notes, scrawled out to tell Harry what time he was coming over or to get Harry’s coffee order before he came to visit the shop.

He sits in his desk chair and starts to read, feeling anxiety start to rear its ugly head in his chest.

As it turns out, he was right to be worried.

_Potter,_

_I’m sorry, but I don’t have any better way to say this to you, so I’m just going to say it straight._

_I don’t think we should continue with our relationship._

_Please don’t think it’s your fault, because it mostly isn’t. And I know the whole “it’s me, not you” speech is utterly clichéd, but that really is the case here. I’ve allowed myself to get too close to you, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep on with it, if only to keep your feelings safe as well as my own – especially as I’ve gotten sick, and will only continue to get worse over the next few weeks._

_Again, I’m truly sorry. I have enjoyed the past few weeks with you, and I wish you luck in your future endeavors, love-life related or otherwise._

_Don’t worry about me, if you can help it._

_Best,_

_Draco_

Harry stares at the letter, reading it over again as if that’ll somehow make the words change.

And then he lets it slide out of his fingers and fall to the floor.

He feels… nothing.

That’s a good sign, right? If he feels nothing then that means he can skip having his heart broken, can just pick up and keep going with his life.

He stands and starts walking back to the bed to lie back down. But halfway between his bed and the chair, the pain hits.

_Fuck._

Draco—Draco doesn’t want him any longer.

He won’t be seeing Draco again, and from what the letter sounded like, Draco doesn’t even want to be friends anymore.

All of a sudden, he feels like his chest is splitting in half. He sinks to his knees merely a foot from the bed, tears welling up in his eyes.

Draco. Draco.

Harry _loves_ him, and Draco… doesn’t.

He can’t, if he’s making Harry leave like this.

Draco doesn’t love him.

He lets out a strangled sob, leaning forward against the cool wood of his bedframe and letting himself fall apart.

He had no idea this would hurt so badly.

And maybe this was what Draco was trying to prevent, but it hurts like hell anyway. Because all Harry wants to do is to hug him, to press his face into Draco’s shoulder and breathe in his scent and have Draco stroke his back.

But Draco’s not here to hold him. He won’t ever be again.

Harry slumps against his bed and cries.

xXx

Sometime later, when he’s back in bed with the weight of all the covers over top of him, there’s a knock on his door.

For a fleeting, hopeful moment, Harry wonders if Draco has somehow come back.

But then Hermione’s voice says, “Can I come in?”

Harry’s hope deflates, punctured by an invisible knife. Of course Draco wouldn’t be here. He’s sick anyhow.

If it had been Ron at the door, Harry might’ve feigned sleep, but Hermione might have something to tell him about Draco. So even though his face is still puffy from crying, he croaks out, “Yeah, come in.”

Hermione walks in, shutting the door behind herself. “Oh, Harry,” she says, going to him and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re not quite all right, are you?”

Harry shakes his head, heaving a sigh.

Hermione rubs his shoulder, nodding and closing her eyes. “I’m getting closer to the cure, I think,” she says slowly. “I’m starting to feel hopeful. He’ll be okay soon enough.”

Nodding, Harry tries and fails to resist a shudder. He should tell Hermione that Draco left him. But he doesn’t want to. It hurts too much.

Except then Hermione asks, “Have you visited him yet?”

Harry can feel his own face crumple. He shakes his head, mouth trembling. Quietly, he says, “He doesn’t want me there.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “Oh no, Harry, what happened?”

Harry shakes his head. “We were getting too close,” he says, and then he covers his face because he’s fairly sure he’s going to cry again. “I think I love him, ‘Mione.”

And then Hermione coaxes him up so she can wrap him in a hug, and he cries for the second time that day.

“Did you—talk to him?” she asks.

Harry shakes his head into her bushy hair. “He just Owled. It was after he went to the hospital.”

Hermione nods. Then she clears her throat. “Listen,” she says. “It might not be my place to tell you this, but—I really think you should talk to him.”

Harry pulls back, giving a hopeless sigh. “What’s the point? He doesn’t want to be with me, he said it in the letter.”

Looking down, Hermione licks her lips. “I just have a feeling that there’s more to this than he’s told you,” she says quietly. “I won’t tell you my suspicions, just in case I’m wrong, but. I think you should go see him.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “He’ll probably kick me out.”

“He might,” Hermione says. “But if you really love him, Harry—you should ask about his mate.”

The jealousy that rises like bile in his stomach feels almost like a friend now. Harry shakes his head rapidly. “I don’t think I want to know who it is,” he says. “It hurts too much.”

Hermione swallows and nods. “It’s your choice, Harry,” she says. “I’ll be here to support you either way.”

Harry nods and hugs her again. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“You know, I would say I’d hex him for you, but I think it’s probably against Healer code to hex any of the patients,” Hermione says.

Harry lets out a small laugh. “Just a little bit,” he says. He pushes back the covers, and Hermione stands so that he can sit up on the edge of the bed. “I—I might go and visit him. But I kind of look a mess right now, don’t I?”

Hermione gives him an amused smile. “Maybe a little.”

“Thought so,” Harry says, and finds it in him to smile at her.

Maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance to fix this.

He stands, rubbing at his puffy eyes, and says, “Do you happen to know any anti-swelling spells?”

xXx

Harry stands in front of the door to Draco’s room. He has half a mind to turn around and walk straight back out before Draco sees him through the small window in the door, but if he leaves, he won’t be able to come back easily. Hermione let him in so that he didn’t have to alert Draco he was coming. He’d been worried that Draco would deny him on the spot.

But he is here. He might as well just… try.

Draco is worth at least that much.

Harry takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

Draco looks up immediately from where he’s sitting in the sparse hospital bed, eyes wide. “Potter! What are you doing here?”

Harry’s immediate desire is to flee. But he stands his ground, hand still on the door handle. “I wanted to talk,” he says quietly.

Draco’s lips thin, and he looks away. “You shouldn’t be here. Please leave.”

It hurts so much to hear Draco say that, so much that Harry nearly does just that. But he’s feeling brazen and rather reckless at this point, because either way their relationship is going to be over, right?

So he might as well just try.

“Tell me one thing and I’ll leave,” he says, heart pounding.

He’s not even sure he wants to ask this, but Hermione seemed to think he should.

And the truth is that there’s a small part of him that really, desperately wants to know.

“Go on, then,” Draco says. He’s still not looking at Harry, and Harry’s stomach twists.

But he soldiers on. Slowly, he opens his mouth and says what he should probably have insisted on saying from the beginning.

“Tell me who your mate is.”

Draco goes pale, and he does look at Harry then, but only for a second. “I can’t,” he says, curling his knees up so he can wrap his arms around them. They’ve let him keep the casual robes he was wearing instead of the thin hospital gowns, Harry notes. He’s so—God. Harry wants to hug him, even now.

“You can’t?” Harry asks softly, “Or you don’t want to?”

Draco hides his face in his knees. “Fine,” he says. “I really, really don’t want to.”

“Well, tough,” Harry says, shaking his head, anger and longing and jealousy balling up in his stomach and bolstering his stubbornness so high it hits the ceiling. “You—you at least owe me this. I won’t leave until you say it,” he decides.

Draco gives him a shocked look. “Potter, damnit, don’t—fuck.”

But despite Draco’s protesting, Harry’s already closing the door.

Except then he takes a step forward into the room—and Draco actually recoils.

Fuck.

That hurts.

“Don’t come any closer,” Draco says, and Harry can’t even begin to fathom why—maybe Draco is repulsed by him now, so much that he can’t even be in Harry’s presence. God.

Except then he feels a strange sort of urge to keep going, to walk over and smile at Draco, maybe to impress him with some sort of magic display—

It’s Draco’s Allure, he realizes. He’s almost sure of it.

Harry’s eyes widen. He checks Draco’s wrist, but he’s still wearing the bracelet, which must mean—“You’re off your suppressants, aren’t you?”

Draco sighs, nodding with a pinched expression. “Yeah. The ingredients interfere with the potions they’re giving me, even though I told them the potions would do fuck-all for this disease.”

“That’s awful,” Harry says, and relents, taking a step back. It hurts that he has to hold himself this far away, but even across the room, the Allure is starting to fuck with his head. Which will most definitely interfere with his mission.

So he Summons a chair from the corner, putting it by the door and sitting down. He’s prepared for a long wait.

“Potter,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “Do you really mean to stay here until I tell you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry says. The idea is starting to feel more stupid by the moment, especially since Draco isn’t even looking at him, but he’s going to stick to his plan.

It seems like it’s going to be the only way to make Draco fucking talk to him.

Draco opens his eyes, shaking his head at the wall. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

Maybe Harry’s imagining it, but it feels like there’s the smallest hint of fondness in that statement.

Deep inside of Harry, a small spark of hope ignites. He twists his hands in his lap and waits.

It takes a few minutes before Draco finally turns his head to look at him. For the first time, Harry realizes that it looks like Draco’s been crying, and his heart pulses in sympathy.

“Do you really want to know?” Draco asks.

Harry steels himself and nods.

Draco sighs. “Goddamnit,” he says. “You know, I really, honestly can’t believe you haven’t figured it out already.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“I think it should be fairly obvious at this point,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “Although, you never did ask. I was worried you would figure it out, but—you’re so bloody dense. I guess that’s a good thing, in this case.”

Harry stares at him, uncomprehending.

And then everything clicks.

His mouth falls open. “No,” he says. “That can’t be true. You said that we couldn’t—that it would hurt if we had sex, and we couldn’t… because I wasn’t. I wasn’t—God, Draco, why?”

Draco flinches. “I lied,” he says softly. “I had to. Veelas mate by consummating their bond.” He averts his eyes, and oh.

_Oh._

Everything is falling into place, and the truth swells, crashing into Harry like a tidal wave.

It’s him, isn’t it?

Harry is Draco’s mate.

Harry stares at Draco, slowly shaking his head. “It’s… me.”

Draco hides his face. “Yes,” he says. “You’re my—you’re supposed to be my mate.”

Harry’s heart feels like it’s stopped inside his chest. Logically, he knows that it’s still beating, because he’s not dead yet, but the pain is so—much.

Supposed to be. Harry’s _supposed_ to be his mate.

Because Draco doesn’t want to mate.

Not even with him.

Harry can’t bring himself to speak through the sudden spasm in his throat. He thinks he might cry or swear or shout if he opens his mouth, and he doesn’t want to do any of those things so he just clenches his teeth against the pain instead.

Harry loves him, and Draco doesn’t want to be with him. Can’t be with him. Ever.

Draco sucks in a breath. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I never wanted you to know. I’m sorry I lied, but I really, really didn’t want to tell you—and it seems it didn’t fucking matter anyway because I’ve already managed to hurt you, haven’t I?"

Harry digs his nails into his palms and nods. “You don’t want me,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

“No,” Draco says, looking at him desperately. “Please understand, Potter. That’s not it. It’s just—I can’t mate. I can’t. Even if that means losing—losing you, f-fuck.” He buries his face in his knees, shaking.

Draco… doesn’t want Harry. Not enough. Never enough.

Harry sits there in his chair, stricken. Now he finally knows what Draco meant when he said he didn’t want to hurt Harry.

Because now he’ll have to know for the rest of his life that they were meant for each other.

He sits there and closes his eyes and wishes more than anything that Draco would come and hold him. He doesn’t, of course. Draco doesn’t want to be with him any longer.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says again, his voice cracking. His eyes are red-rimmed when he looks up, and Harry desperately wants to go to him, but—

He can’t.

He won’t.

Because Draco doesn’t need Harry. What he needs is for Harry to leave, so that he won’t be tempted to bond anymore, so that he won’t have to go against the decision he made so long ago.

If Harry really loves him, he needs to let him go.

_Fuck._

Harry stands shakily, chest heaving with sobs that ache to escape. But he won’t cry. Not now.

“I promised to leave if you told me,” he says, voice hollow. “So now—so now I’m leaving.”

Draco says nothing.

Harry turns and puts his hand on the doorknob, opening the door and—

“No, H-Harry—wait, please,” Draco says.

Slowly, Harry turns around. Draco has his arm outstretched, reaching toward Harry as if he could grab him and physically pull him back into the room. Slowly, Draco’s arm drops, and his face crumples.

“You—you used my name,” Harry says, swallowing against the thickness in his throat. Yes, Draco’d done it once before, but it’d been during almost-sex, so it was different.

But this time…

“Harry,” Draco says again, his lip trembling. “Harry…”

“What is it?” Harry asks, his heart aching with every beat as he looks at the man he loves. Draco looks so small on the hospital bed, small and alone and—and Harry doesn’t want to leave him.

He really, really doesn’t.

“I don’t understand,” Draco says, shaking his head and staring off into space. “We’re not mated, so—so why did it _hurt_ so much when you tried to leave?”

Tears prick at Harry’s eyes, and he’s helpless to stop them. “Draco,” he says, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“You have to,” Draco says. “You have to eventually. I won’t be able to give you what you want, not all of it, and then you’ll find someone else—” He cuts off, covering his mouth and letting out a sob. “It’s—it’s better this way.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head, shoulders trembling. “No, it isn’t. I’m—I’m not leaving.”

Draco looks up at him, eyes wide. “What?”

“I want to stay with you,” Harry says. He lets out a shaky breath. “I want to. Really badly. And if you really, really need me to go away, then I’ll do it. But you have to look me in the eyes and tell me you want that.”

“Why?” Draco says, tears dripping down his face. “This is already h-hard enough.”

“Because I want to hear it from you,” Harry says. “Tell me you don’t want me anymore.”

“I—” Draco starts, and then his breath hitches. “I don’t… I… fuck. Potter, I can’t say that.”

“Then d-don’t,” Harry says shakily. “Tell me to stay. And I will.”

Draco’s face crumples. “Stay,” he says, “Please.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

He lets go of the doorknob, and Draco shudders a sigh of relief, slumping back against the headboard. “Fuck,” he says. “I h-hate this. I can’t tell if any of my feelings are real, if it’s me or the Veela, and it just—I hate it.” He shakes his head. “Every time we kiss, I wonder if it’s because this bloody bond is forcing me to want it, or if it’s really me. Every time I look at you, my heart beats so fucking fast and I can’t—I don’t want it all to be a lie. Even if I’ll never know.”

Harry sits down in the chair he’d vacated, staring at the ground. “I don’t know how to prove that to you,” he says. “I don’t even know that I’m all that desirable, even—”

“You are,” Draco says, and then slaps a hand over his mouth. “You’re really—fuck. See, I can’t stop myself. I can’t _think._ ” He looks so upset.

Harry wants, more than anything, to go to him. But he can’t.

He lets out a shudder, tears dripping down his face. “God, I b-bet you wish this whole thing had never happened.”

Draco makes a strangled noise. “No,” he says. “No, I d-don’t. Not at all. And that’s the worst part. You’re—you’re _good_. You fit in my life way better than you have any right to, and I want to be with you always, and I—I can’t.”

“Then let me be your friend,” Harry says, and Draco looks up at him then. “Truly, this time. Nothing else.” It hurts to say it. But it hurts less than it would to leave Draco behind.

Draco stares at him. “You… you mean that?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “I do mean it. We don’t have to kiss, or hold hands, or—or anything, if that’s what you need.”

Draco shakes his head, fingers curling into fists at his side. “I j-just don’t get it,” he says. “Why? Why do you want me so much that you’re willing to s-sacrifice having an actual relationship?”

Harry realizes what he’s going to say when it’s already halfway out of his mouth, and he’s helpless to stop it. “Because I love you.”

The words sit there, hovering in the air between them, and Harry wants to take them back but he can’t.

“W-what?” Draco says. He’s sitting there, frozen, mouth agape as tears trickle down his face. “Potter, no… no. You said—you said you d-didn’t, you always said that you weren’t—in love.”

“I lied too,” Harry says, closing his eyes.

Draco shudders a sob, wiping at his face. “Why?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Because I wanted to keep you,” Harry says. “I still want to keep you. I can’t bear the thought of dating some other bloke because every time I close my eyes I just think of being with you. These past few weeks—it’s been everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Draco stills, mouth slightly open, eyes looking dazed. “God,” he says. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” Harry says softly, staring down at the dull tiled floor. “Really.”

“And you—you would stay. Even if you couldn’t have anything else besides friendship,” Draco says.

Harry nods, biting his lip until it hurts. “If you wanted me to.”

Draco lets out a small sob. “Come here,” he says, and Harry’s heart leaps.

He stands and goes to Draco, even though the Allure gets stronger with every step he takes, urging him to try to kiss Draco, or maybe even to fuck him. But he ignores it, instead clambering into the bed beside Draco when he shifts out of the way. “I missed you, fuck,” Draco says, pulling Harry close and latching on like a lifeline.

It feels like home.

Draco buries his face into Harry’s shoulder as Harry leans against the pillows, and Harry shivers, feeling trembly and exhausted. At any moment, Draco could change his mind. Harry has to be okay with that.

“This whole time, you never asked—” Draco starts, and then cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“Never asked what?” Harry says.

Draco sighs. “Never asked me to mate with you.”

Harry leans back, surprised. “You don’t want that.”

Draco nods, looking at him. “I don’t,” he says. “But—do you?”

“No—” Harry starts to say, and then he stops, actually considering it.

Being mated with Draco.

Being able to be with him forever, lying in bed together, kissing and fucking and growing old together.

Harry’s chest throbs, and he squeezes his eyes closed, because fuck. He does want it. He really does.

“Potter?” Draco says.

“I—I would be happy. If we mated,” Harry says. “But not if you didn’t want to.”

“Is that—the only reason you don’t want it?” Draco asks.

Harry nods, biting his lip. “It’s more important that you’re happy.”

Draco stares at him, brow furrowed. “You mean you’re not worried you’ll feel differently someday? Or that I might end up a Squib because of this stupid fucking disease?”

Harry pauses, then shakes his head. “Either of those things could happen, I suppose. But I’ve never felt as strongly about—about anyone else. It’s always been you, you know.”

Draco’s lip trembles. “Potter…”

“And losing your magic doesn’t have anything to do with—with me loving you,” Harry says. “It’s still you. Even if you don’t—if you don’t love me back...” Harry has to clench his teeth then, because that’s what he’s truly afraid of. Draco hasn’t said he loves him. And maybe he doesn’t. But Harry forces his mouth open and continues. “Even if that’s t-true, I don’t think my feelings are going to go away for a long, long time.”

Eyes growing wide, Draco shakes his head. “I never said I didn’t love you, Potter.”

Harry stills, heart doing a somersault in his chest. “You—what?”

Draco takes a deep breath. “Your hair is stupid and messy and you hog the blankets, and your sense of fashion is atrocious.” He looks away. “And yet—and yet I’m still in love with you.”

He loves him.

Draco loves him.

_God._

Draco gives him a desperate look then, wrapping his arms around himself. “It already tears me apart to be away from you, and we haven’t even mated. I don’t want to rely on you like that, because if you leave—if you left—”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry says. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

“But you could change your mind. And then I’d just be holding you down,” Draco tells him, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t work.”

“We don’t have to mate,” Harry says, finding Draco’s arm and squeezing it. “I already said that—”

“But you want to,” Draco says. “And I—everything in my fucking brain is telling me that I should do it because of the fucking Veela genes—fuck.”

“You don’t have to give in,” Harry says, brows knitting together. “You don’t have to do that for me—”

“But I want you to have a choice too!” Draco says.

Harry is silent for a moment. “You do?”

“Yes,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “If you really, truly want to mate with me, then I want to consider it.”

Harry is stunned. He hadn’t even thought it was a possibility. “Why?” he asks. “Why change your mind?”

“Because you’re you,” Draco says, looking up at him, eyes red. “You’re ridiculously devoted to me for fuck knows what reason, and you say you want to be with me even when I try to push you away, even when I’ve hurt you, even when I can’t even fucking do magic anymore.” He takes a breath, and then an almost adoring look appears in his eyes. Harry nearly melts. “And because I trust you,” Draco says softly. “Because you’re so adamant that you don’t want to force me into this, and that means—that means so much to me. Not to mention you must be feeling the Allure right now, and you haven’t even tried to kiss me.”

Shivering, Harry leans into him, pressing his nose into Draco’s hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I won’t go further than what you want. Never, ever.”

“We’ll fight if we’re together, you know.” Draco says. “I expect we’ll row something fierce. Doesn’t that count as hurting me?”

Harry lets out a surprised laugh, pulling back to look at him. “I suppose you’re right. But we’d make up afterwards.”

“You mean you’d make sweet, tender love to me—”

“More like an angry shag over the kitchen table,” Harry says.

Draco’s pupils flare. “Fuck,” he says, flushing. And then he looks away. “I want that with you,” he blurts out. “All of it.”

“I do too,” Harry says, feeling warm when Draco finds his hand.

“I really didn’t think I would, you know,” Draco says. “I always thought it was just the mate bond that was forcing me to want to be around you, but then we actually started talking and I—I fell in love.”

Harry feels like he’s glowing. “I love you too,” he says, mouth widening into a smile.

Draco gives him an embarrassed look. “It feels so good when you say that,” he says. “I want—I want…”

“Want what?” Harry asks quietly.

Draco looks at him seriously. “Everything,” he nearly whispers.

“Anything you want,” Harry tells him, but Draco shakes his head.

“No,” Draco says. “I mean—I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” Draco says. “I want to mate. With you.”

Shocked, Harry stares at him, almost too scared of getting turned down again to hope for that to be true. “Are—are you sure?”

Draco’s eyes flutter, and he nods. “I’m quite positive.”

Harry thinks he might explode with all the feelings building in his chest, tumbling through his veins and filling him with longing, with love, with joy. “Oh, Draco,” he says, and this time when he smiles, Draco smiles back.

Then Draco looks down, twisting one of his hands in the sheets. “I don’t really know how to do this,” he says carefully, turning to look over at Harry. “I’m nervous.”

Harry’s heart pounds. “I dunno either,” he says. “I’ve never—never mated before.”

“I would be rather annoyed if you had,” Draco says, and Harry laughs. Then Draco holds up his wrist, the one with the bracelet on it. “I suppose I should take this off, then.”

Harry stops him, putting his hand over the bracelet. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Really, truly? We could wait, you know.”

“No,” Draco says. “I mean—yes, I’m sure. And no, I don’t want to wait.” He swallows, averting his eyes. “If we wait, then that means you’ll have to go away again, and having you apart from me for even a little bit is—” He cuts off, shaking his head, and Harry knows exactly how he feels. “Anyway,” Draco continues. “I—I refuse to let my pride get in the way of… of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Harry stares at him, heart pulsing with affection. “Draco,” he breathes, a smile pricking at his lips, and he wants to kiss Draco so, so badly. But not yet. “It’s not just pride that was stopping you, though,” he says.

Draco nods. “I know,” he says. “It’s—fear. I’m really frightened, you know. I’m worried that this won’t work out, or that I won’t be able to protect you and you’ll die before I do, or that you’ll fall for another man, or a dozen other things. Although, if you leave me, I plan on hexing you into the next century,” he warns, expression fierce for a moment. “Even if this disease takes my magic. I’ll get Pansy to do it for me.”

Harry laughs, leaning briefly against him. “Hermione wanted to hex you for breaking my heart.”

Draco’s mouth falls open. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says. “I—I really didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Harry says, and then he drops his hand from Draco’s wrist. “I won’t leave you,” he says again. “Promise.”

Draco slowly smiles. “I believe you,” he says, and then Harry hugs him close for a long time.

Finally, the Allure gets to be too strong, and Harry has to pull away. “I’m ready if you are,” he says. “Whenever you want to do it.”

“Now?” Draco asks, eyes sparkling.

“Is it, um. Safe to do this here?” Harry asks, feeling his cheeks heat. He looks around the hospital room, suddenly worried that a Mediwitch will walk right in while they’re—indisposed.

“I’ve only had one Healer in,” Draco says. “We should be fine.” Even so, he picks up his wand, aiming a locking spell at the door—except it doesn’t work, and he swears. “Fuck, I keep forgetting that my magic isn’t working,” he says, briefly looking dismayed. “You better do it.”

Harry swallows away his despair at Draco’s condition and locks the door, then adds a couple of extra locking spells he’d learned during his brief time in the Aurors for good measure. “Okay,” he says, putting his wand down.

Then Draco slides off of the bed, walking over to the hospital window and staring outside. Harry follows, and when he gets close enough, he sees that Draco is shaking. “Oh, Draco,” he says, going and wrapping his arms around him.

“I really am terrified,” Draco says. “But I trust you.”

Harry smiles softly. “You sure you want to do this here?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say yes before you’ll believe me?” he asks, and Harry laughs.

“Just making absolutely sure,” he says, and then quietly, he adds, “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

A small smile flickers on Draco’s face, and they pull away from each other as Draco turns to look out the window. “Potter,” Draco says. “If we do this… you know what will happen, right? I’ll have to have sex with you. A lot. And I’m going to be very possessive for a little while. Maybe forever.”

Harry laughs. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t mind that at all, actually.”

“You’re an idiot,” Draco says, looking at him, a smile tugging at his lips—

Oh.

Harry remembers this.

He dreamed about it the night before Draco came to his shop the first time, although it seems his dream was hazy on the details.

His face splits into a grin, because Merlin, his dream had been right. “Pot, kettle,” he teases, going along with the script, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Sure, Potter,” he says, and Harry knows without looking down that Draco’s about to take his hand.

It’s just as warm as Harry remembered.

Draco squeezes once, before pulling away. Then slowly, with shaking hands, he unclasps the bracelet, looks at Harry, and drops it onto the windowsill.

If Harry thought the Allure was strong before, it’s nothing compared to now. “Fuck,” he says, and he’s pressing himself against Draco before he knows what he’s doing because everything in his veins is saying _want, want._

“Sorry,” Draco says, and he’s breathing fast, his arms sliding around Harry. “I can’t make it stop—I’m feeling too much, I—oh fuck, I need to kiss you,” he says.

And then he does.

He presses Harry up against the wall and kisses him senseless, slipping his tongue into Harry’s mouth and biting at his lips as Harry clutches at him and moans. “Draco,” Harry says, feeling himself harden almost immediately. “Fuck.”

“I want your cock in me,” Draco says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat. “Fuck me. Please.”

Harry doesn’t need to be asked twice. He shudders and kisses Draco once more. Then he pushes Draco to the bed, casting a spell to enlarge it, and climbs on, pressing Draco to the mattress and kissing him until he gasps.

“Okay?” Harry asks, pulling back.

Draco rolls his eyes, cheeks pink, and answers by pressing his hips up into Harry’s.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and presses back, and then they’re kissing again, rutting against each other, and it’s so good that Harry can’t even think—fuck, they were supposed to be doing something else, but this has to be _better_ —

“Potter,” Draco says, “Hang on.”

Harry looks at him, eyes half-lidded, dazed and breathless. “Huh?”

“Get off,” Draco says, snorting and pushing him away. “My first time with you isn’t going to involve either of us coming in our pants.”

Harry nearly objects, but then Draco starts pulling Harry’s shirt off, and Harry remembers. Right. They’re going to fuck. _God._

He grabs his wand, spelling Draco’s robes off, and Draco yelps. “Potter! Those were expensive!”

“Relax, they’re over on the chair,” Harry says, pointing over at where they’re slung haphazardly across the back of the chair by the door. Then he can finally stare at Draco—Draco’s still wearing his pants, but everything else is on display, his slender, toned limbs and the paleness of his skin. Harry can’t wait to touch him, to kiss him everywhere, to fuck until they both fall apart.

“Arsehole,” Draco mutters, nevertheless throwing Harry’s shirt on the floor and tugging at the zip to Harry’s trousers.

“And yet you want me in yours,” Harry quips, and Draco pauses and gives him a look.

“You’re lucky you’re attractive,” Draco says, eyes flicking down over Harry’s bare chest.

Harry flushes, shifting his hips. “Are you going to strip me or not?”

“Patience, Potter,” Draco says, but he jerks Harry’s trousers down his hips anyway, taking his pants with them. Harry’s cock springs out, flushed and leaking, and Draco stares at it and groans, pressing his hand to the front of his own pants.

“I need you inside me,” Draco says, breathing fast.

“You’re still wearing too much clothing for that,” Harry says, and Draco snickers, stripping his pants off.

God. Draco’s cock is right there, and Harry wants to touch it. He _can_ touch it now, fuck. So he does, down onto his knees and taking it into his mouth.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Draco exclaims, his hips bucking, nearly choking Harry. But Draco’s cock feels so good in his mouth, a soft, heavy weight, musky and tasting of Draco, and he wants more, he wants it all.

So he tries to suck him down, but he’s barely even started before Draco pushes him away, nudging him so that he sits back against the pillows. “Later,” Draco says. “Don’t want to come yet.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and leans up to kiss him.

Draco breaks the kiss a moment later, raising a knuckle to stroke across Harry’s cheek and making him shiver. “Get your wand,” Draco says, and then proceeds to straddle him, fuck.

Harry leans over, made slightly harder by the fact that Draco’s now on top of him, and grabs his wand. He casts protection charms, and then he’s just about to cast a lubrication spell on his fingers when Draco stops him.

“No, here,” Draco says, and holds out his own hand.

Harry is slightly confused, but he complies, and then Draco reaches behind himself and—oh, _fuck_ —he wastes no time in pressing two fingers deep inside of him.

“God,” Harry mumbles. “You’re brilliant.”

Draco arches a brow, leaning so he can press a third finger in. “Interesting choice of adjectives for the situation.”

Harry flushes, unable to look away from the way Draco’s fingers are sinking deep inside of him. “You are,” he says. “I want you.”

“Well good, because I’m ready,” Draco says, and God, it’s happening so fast. He pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch that makes Harry shudder. “I—erm. Just to warn you,” Draco adds, looking embarrassed. “My wings might come out.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and smiles. “I’d like to see.”

“Okay,” Draco says, smiling back, his eyes bright as he looks down at Harry. “They’re a bit bulky. They get in the way sometimes.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says, smoothing his hand up and down Draco’s leg.

And then Draco swallows and nods, letting his wings unfurl from behind him in a whirlwind of feathers. Harry stares up at him, at his reddened lips and flushed chest, at his thickened erection, at the immense white wings that are now curling around his shoulders.

“God,” Harry says. “You’re beautiful.”

Draco shivers. “Fuck, Potter,” he mumbles. “You’re such a sap.”

“You like it,” Harry says, grinning as he reaches up to stroke Draco’s wing.

Draco’s whole body shudders, and he groans, grasping at Harry’s hand. “Fuck,” he says, “Careful—they’re sensitive.”

“In a bad way?” Harry asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Very, very good.”

Then he leans down and kisses Harry, slides a hand down Harry’s stomach, and takes his cock in hand.

“Oh, _God,_ ” Harry says, his hips bucking against the slickness of Draco’s fingers, and it takes him a moment to find his voice again after that. Fuck, that feels so good. He finally manages to open his mouth and say, “Draco, Draco, stop,” because he’s about ten seconds from coming and he would rather be fucking Draco when he does.

Draco laughs and pulls his hand away, wiping it on the sheets. And then he positions himself over Harry, guiding the head of Harry’s cock so it presses against his entrance, fuck. “Ready, Potter?”

Harry reaches over and takes his other hand, squeezing it. “I love you,” he says instead. “You sure you want this?”

“There’s no way I’d be able to stop now,” Draco says, something predatory in his eyes. “I want to make you mine.”

Harry lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. “Please,” he says.

Draco bites his lip. “Harry,” he says quietly. “Thank you for giving me the choice.”

And then Harry doesn’t have time to respond before Draco he adjusts himself and presses down onto his cock.

“Fuck—Draco,” Harry cries out. It’s so fucking tight, and Draco’s not stopping, pressing down until Harry bottoms out inside him and almost immediately setting up a relentless pace.

“Yes, fuck, like that,” Draco says, as Harry thrusts his hips up to meet him, and Harry slides his hands up Draco’s thighs to grip his arse, urging him faster.

“I’m gonna—I’m not gonna last,” Harry says, and now Draco’s making these little whimpers on every thrust that threaten to tear Harry apart.

Draco’s eyes flutter shut, and he momentarily stills, making Harry squirm.

“Draco, please,” Harry whines, and Draco opens his eyes.

“I have to—I’m sorry, fuck, this is barbaric,” Draco says, pursing his lips.

“What—what is it?” Harry asks, breath ragged. Lust is spiraling through every bone in his body, urging him onward, making his chest burn and his erection throb, but just for a moment he pauses just to admire how lovely Draco looks like this.

God. He's magnificent.

Draco sighs, looking nervous. “I need to bite you,” he says, and it comes out nearly like a growl. “On the neck.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Fuck,” he says.

“It’s a mating thing,” Draco says, eyes sheepish. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Harry says, and then he cranes his neck so Draco has better access. “Do it.”

Draco whines, low in his throat. “You’re mine,” he says then. “ _Mine._ ”

And then Draco raises his hips and snaps them back down again, fucking himself onto Harry, a trembling smile slowly appearing on his face.

“ _Nngh_ , yes,” Harry tells him, gasping. “I’m—I'm yours. And you’re mine.”

Draco groans, his expression so full of tenderness that Harry’s heart swells, and then Draco leans down and puts his lips to Harry’s neck.

Harry expects the bite to hurt. And it does, a little.

But he’s not expecting the sudden burst of magic that flashes through his body, flooding his senses, and suddenly all he can feel are Draco’s teeth on his skin and the place where his cock is inside Draco, and Draco is clenching around him impossibly tight, groaning and shuddering and spurting out over Harry’s chest—

“Ohh, fuck—Draco!” Harry groans, and then he arches his back and comes, pleasure wracking through him in waves, spilling hot inside Draco’s body as he clutches at Draco’s hips.

“Harry,” Draco says, pulling away from Harry’s neck and pressing his face to his shoulder. He hasn’t yet pulled off of him. “Merlin.”

Harry holds him, heart slowly returning to its normal pace. “How do you feel?” he asks after a moment, stroking his back.

Draco sits up to look at him, seeming dazed. “I feel—a lot of things,” he says. “But I’m… surprised.”

“Hmm? Why?” Harry asks.

“I was expecting my feelings to change,” Draco says. “But they didn’t.”

“Really?”

Draco shrugs. “I’m just as fond of you as I was earlier today,” he says, cheeks going pink. “Possibly a little more, even. But I don’t think that’s because we’ve mated.”

“Oh,” Harry says, grinning. “Brilliant.”

Draco laughs and leans down to give him a long, slow kiss. Then he sits up, finally pulling off of Harry and curling into his chest.

Except then he immediately pushes himself up again afterwards, wrinkling his nose. “Ew, Potter, there’s spunk all over you.”

Harry bursts into a fit of laughter. “It’s yours, you know,” he says, grabbing his wand and spelling himself clean. He aims the wand at Draco’s arse too, but Draco stops him, cheeks reddening.

“Leave it,” Draco says, averting his eyes. “I want to feel you—in me.”

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, and despite just having what might be the best orgasm of his life, his cock twitches. He pulls Draco down to kiss him, and Draco goes pliantly, wrapping his wings around them both.

It’s then that the bite on Harry’s neck starts to burn. It feels strange, almost pleasant, but it's also growing hotter by the moment and he pulls back to stares at Draco. “Do you feel anything?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Draco says, tightening his arms around Harry. He shivers, tears coming to his eyes. “I don't know what’s happening. I feel so—fuck. I—I love you. Harry. Harry…”

“I love you,” Harry says, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes.

Then they lay there, curled into each other, as the magic of the bond completes itself, tying them together for eternity.

xXx

When Harry wakes, the sky outside is dark, and he’s not sure where he is until he smells the scent of sex and feels Draco shift beside him.

“What time is it?” Harry asks, stretching.

“Dunno,” Draco says, yawning as he grabs his wand and casts a Tempus. It flashes briefly with the time—just past eight PM—and then fizzles away.

Harry stares at him. “Did you just—?”

Draco stares back. “Wait—fuck,” he says, sitting up. His wings had retracted at some point during their sleep, and all Harry can see are the slight bumps in his back indicating where they once were when Draco climbs out of bed, aiming his wand at the lantern in the corner to light it.

It works.

“Maybe it’s just a fluke,” Draco says, staring at his wand. “Or maybe one of the potions they’re giving me is actually working.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, not truly believing that’s the case. He slides out of bed and pulls on his pants, heart racing.

Draco raises his wand and Summons his own clothes. They fly across the room just as they’re supposed to, and he pulls them on as Harry finishes dressing, looking bewildered. Then he Summons the bracelet too, strapping it on his wrist, and Harry feels the faint trickle of Allure-induced lust that’s been flowing beneath his skin finally drop away.

Harry goes to him then, kisses him softly, and says, “I’ll Floo Hermione.”

xXx

“I can’t believe it,” Hermione says, jaw dropping open as she examines one diagnostic tool, then another. “There’s barely a trace of the virus, and the numbers of infected cells are dropping as we speak.”

“Shite,” Harry breathes, and then suddenly, Draco hugs him, letting out a bubble of laughter.

“Fuck. I was—I was really frightened,” Draco mumbles into his neck.

Harry smooths his hands over Draco’s back before pulling away, grinning at him. “I’m so happy you’re safe.”

“Merlin,” Hermione says, and Harry turns and sees that she’s staring at Harry’s neck. “Hang on. Are you two—mated?”

Harry flushes. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t have time to tell you, but, erm. You were right.”

Hermione beams, rushing over to hug him. “Oh Harry, I’m so happy for you,” she says. Then she turns to Draco, raising an eyebrow. “I still have half a mind to hex you, you know.”

“I would deserve it, probably,” Draco says. “But I have a feeling you have a lot of work to do right now, and so do I.”

Hermione laughs. “You’re right about that,” she says, Conjuring a vial with her wand. “Mind if I take another DNA sample to run through the lab?”

“Sure,” Draco says, turning to face her.

Hermione leaves just as a Mediwitch comes in to declare Draco released.

And then they go home.

xXx

“How do you feel?” Harry asks later that night, pressed to Draco’s side as they lay in bed. They’re both naked, having had a relatively enthusiastic re-consummation of their bond, and they’ve been lying there in silence for quite a while.

“I feel—happy,” Draco admits. “Ridiculously happy. Probably some of that Gryffindor spirit rubbing off on me.”

Harry snorts, elbowing him lightly. “Is that all?” he asks.

Draco thinks about it. “I can’t tell yet,” he says eventually. “I feel incredibly attracted to you, but that was true before we bonded. And I want to protect you, but that’s not new either. I expect that would change if you tried to leave me, but—” He cuts off, shaking his head. “But that hurt too, before we were bonded.”

Harry presses a kiss to his temple. “I won’t leave you,” he tells him, and he knows right then and there that it will hold true. Forever, he’d like to think.

Draco gives him a grateful smile. “Well, I can’t leave you, so I suppose it balances out.”

Harry thinks through the other things Draco’s told him about mating. Slowly, he grins. “I expect it’ll take us quite a while to find out what happens if we stop having sex.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, smirking. “I don’t ever intend to find that out, actually.” He leans closer then, lowering his voice. “I’ll have you in your bed, or over your kitchen table, or in your workroom while no one’s watching—anywhere and everywhere.”

Harry’s embarrassed when his cock immediately throbs. “You better learn quite a lot of charms to keep us from getting caught, then, if you plan on shagging me in public.”

Draco grins, sliding his fingers ever so slowly down Harry’s stomach as Harry’s cock hardens. “And what if I don’t?” he says, skimming his hand through the thatch of hair between Harry’s hips. “You’ll just have to be very, very quiet, won’t you?”

“Fuck,” Harry whines, as Draco finally wraps his slim fingers around Harry’s cock.

“Shh,” Draco says, grinning, and proceeds to kiss him until Harry comes all over his hand.

Harry reciprocates when he finally catches his breath, mouthing at Draco’s cock until he’s begging Harry to suck him—and he does, moving in languid strokes, pulling back when Draco gets close, to his extreme annoyance.

“Are you going to get me off or not, Potter?” Draco growls after the fourth time Harry’s stopped.

“Maybe,” Harry says. Then he grins. “Say my name.”

“Potter,” Draco says defiantly.

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

Draco’s flushing now, and he glares at Harry. “Are you really going to make me—oh fuck,” he groans, as Harry licks a stripe up his cock. “Harry,” he sighs, hips bucking. “Please.”

Harry rewards him by suckling at the head for a moment. “And how do you feel about me?” he asks.

Draco groans. “You’re ridiculous, that’s how I feel.”

“Oh?” Harry says, sitting up. “Insulting me won’t get your cock sucked, you know.”

“Fine,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “When you’re not being an absolute fucking tease, I rather adore you, so would you just get on with it?”

Harry laughs and pats his thigh, and then he finally sucks him down until he comes, pulsing down Harry’s throat.

Afterwards, Harry curls up beside him again, exhausted. “Mm,” he hums. “You feel nice.”

“I have to say the same for you,” Draco mumbles, wrapping his arms around Harry. And then, so quietly Harry almost doesn’t hear it, he whispers, “Harry—my Harry.”

Harry smiles at him softly. “I am yours,” he says. But then, slowly, the smile falls from his face. “Do you—do you regret it? Mating with me?”

Draco doesn’t hesitate to answer. “No,” he says, shaking his head, and Harry shivers a sigh of relief. “Not at all. You… you were willing to give all of this up—" Draco gestures at the way their bodies are pressed together—“just to make me happy. And that speaks volumes.”

“Not just to make you happy,” Harry says. “I think it was rather selfish of me, honestly. It—it was the only way you wouldn’t leave me again.”

“Again?” Draco says, raising his eyebrows.

“After we kissed in eighth year, you left,” Harry says, rolling onto his back. “It took me a long time to get over that.”

Draco is silent for a moment. Then he climbs on top of Harry, kissing him, and presses their foreheads together. “To think, all this time, I’ve been pining after you,” he says, “And you… you wanted me too.”

“I did,” Harry says, heart beating wildly in his chest. “Very much.”

“God, I’ve been an idiot,” Draco says, looking down at him with a rueful smile on his face. “I ran away instead of really thinking about what—what we could’ve been.”

“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” Harry says, finding his hand. “I understand why you didn’t want to be mated.”

Draco nods slowly, shifting downwards and collapsing onto Harry’s chest. “I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly.

“You do,” Harry says, wrapping his arms around him, relishing the feel of their bare chests pressed together, hearts beating as one. “I dreamed about us bonding, you know. Before you came into my shop with the hairbrush.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, looking up at him. “Really, now?”

“I did,” Harry says. “Only, I forgot about it until earlier today.”

Draco snorts. “That would’ve been nice to know,” he says, and then before Harry can get a word in, Draco kisses his neck, right against the bite-mark.

Harry shudders as a strong wave of attraction rushes through him. God. He could stay like this for the rest of his life and be happier than he’s ever been.

And Merlin, he might be able to do just that.

It’s enough to make his heart beat fast, and he grins at Draco, tugging him closer.

“I only wish I’d known that this wasn’t so bad,” Draco says, settling in against Harry’s chest.

“Bonding, you mean?” Harry asks.

“All of it,” Draco says, and then he smirks. “Being around you, for starters.”

Harry flicks him in the shoulder. “You enjoy it.”

“I do now,” Draco points out. “Even though you’re ridiculous quite a lot of the time.”

“I’m starting to think ridiculous is a compliment,” Harry says.

Draco scowls at that, and Harry laughs and kisses him.

xXx

Two days later, Harry and Draco are lying in Harry’s bed. Thankfully, they’re not naked this time, because right in the middle of a conversation about whether or not they should start staying at Draco’s flat instead, Hermione bursts into the room, Ron right on her heels.

“It worked!” Hermione says, practically jumping up and down. “I found a cure, oh God, I finally did it!”

Harry pushes himself out of the bed, catching Hermione in a hug. “Fuck, that’s brilliant, ‘Mione! Are the patients—is everyone all right? Ginny and Neville?”

“The rest of the Healers are working on curing everyone,” Hermione says, beaming. “I got sent home because I’ve been at the hospital for—well, ever since Draco was cured, actually. But Neville let me test my solution on him, and Gin and Blaise were right after that. They’re safe.”

“Thank goodness,” Harry says, his face splitting into a grin.

Pride shines from Ron’s eyes as he wraps an arm around Hermione. “I knew you could do it, love,” he says genuinely.

“That’s fantastic, Granger,” Draco says, a smile gracing his face as he stands from the bed. “I should say that I have some news as well—I’m sure Hermione has gleamed this from our Owls back and forth, but I’m very close to perfecting a more robust potion for core regeneration.”

Harry leans over to hug him, and Ron and Hermione both look overjoyed. “Blimey,” Ron says, shaking his head. “You two are both geniuses.”

“It wasn’t really that hard on my part once Draco was cured,” Hermione says. She looks at Draco then, her eyebrows raised. “Did you know that part of the sequence of your magical chromosome changed when you mated with Harry? That's why you got better—it changed in a way so that the virus could no longer attach to it at the molecular level.”

“Really?” Draco says, taken aback, and he’s about to say something more when Ron interrupts him.

“Wait,” Ron says, “ _Mated?_ ”

Harry and Hermione both laugh, and Draco snickers, sliding his arms around Harry’s waist. “Yes,” he says. “I happen to be part Veela, although I’ll hex you if my Father ever gets wind of that.”

“So you and Harry are—you know.” Ron holds up his hand and crosses his fingers symbolically. “ _Mated,_ mated?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning into Draco’s side. “I reckon we are.”

“Bloody hell,” he says, shaking his head. Then he shrugs and looks at Hermione. “I suppose we better get a move on getting engaged, then,” he says, and Hermione’s face flares bright red. But then she smiles shyly at him, and it’s obvious she’s pleased.

“So—back to the Healing,” Draco says. “You mentioned the DNA sequence changed?”

“Yes, yes it did,” Hermione says, snapping out of the starry-eyed gaze she’d been aiming at Ron. “It made it really easy to figure out what was going on since I’d already taken a sample from you. All I had to do was compare them, and that took a while because I didn’t have a spell for it, so I had to do it manually—but it worked,” she says again, grinning. “Then I just had to perfect a spell to target that specific part of the DNA, and that was it.”

“I’m so proud of you, ‘Mione,” Ron says, and Harry nods in agreement.

“Thanks, you two,” she says, eyes sparkling. And then she lets out a large yawn, momentarily leaning into Ron’s side. “I think I need to head off to bed now, though. I’ve been awake for far too long,” she adds, and they all laugh. “But thanks for everything. Really.” She’s looking at Draco as she says it.

Ron and Hermione leave a moment later, and then Harry and Draco are standing there looking at each other, finally alone again. “Well,” Harry says, gesturing at the door, “I suppose that we should either go to your place when we want to shag, or I should invest in a door with self-locking charms. If that even exists.”

Draco snorts. “You could invent one,” he says, sliding his arms around Harry’s waist.

Harry grins. “Or that,” he says, and then Draco proceeds to snog him senseless, self-locking door or not.

xXx

“What’s this?” Draco calls from the den, and Harry finishes putting the kettle on and goes to see.

Draco’s standing there in Harry’s t-shirt and a pair of his pajama bottoms that are a little too short, holding a book. God, Harry loves him, although he doesn’t say it for fear Draco will call him a sap. Or get distracted. Or both.

Draco shows the book to Harry. The title reads _Historical Accounts of Healing Endeavors Through the Ages._ “I’ve never seen it,” Harry says. “I suppose it’s Hermione’s.”

“Well, it has a note with your name on it,” Draco says, and indeed, there’s a piece of parchment sticking out of the top.

Harry takes the book, opening it to where the parchment is, and sees it’s most definitely Hermione’s handwriting.

 _"Harry_ ," it says, and then in smaller letters, _"_ _When I saw this, I remembered our conversation from the other day, and I thought you (and Draco) might find this interesting. x Hermione_ _"_

“Hmm,” Harry says, and skims the page down to where Hermione’s magically highlighted a section.

_"It can be said that Veela harness some of the most potent self-Healing powers to date, except when it comes to matters of the heart. As such, it is believed that the mating ritual evolved to protect the more vulnerable emotional side of these creatures, tying them to highly compatible Veela or humans and leading to more robust chances for lifelong happiness. This can backfire, as in the case of Lyra Black, who left her mate by choice in thinking he was in love with another woman—when he returned to her, his loyalty never having wavered, she had already passed away from heartbreak. However, such accounts are rare in female Veela, and in fact male Veela mating processes are not initiated at all unless they have already chosen to begin courting the person they are destined for."_

“Draco—” Harry starts, and then realizes that Draco is right behind him, having been reading over his shoulder.

“Already courting… shite,” Draco says, and then he slumps into Harry’s back, wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, and closes his eyes.

“When we kissed,” Harry says, eyes widening. “In eighth year—?”

“I liked you,” Draco says, quieter then. “I was happy when we kissed—I might’ve asked you to the last Hogsmeade weekend, if I hadn’t—if the bond hadn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, setting the book on the coffee table and turning to hug him, worried. “We’re together now, right?”

But when Draco looks up, he’s not dismayed as Harry expected him to be. Instead he’s smiling, looking at Harry with a kind of adoration that makes him want to dissolve. “I chose you,” Draco says.

And Harry brightens. “Yes,” he says, and kisses him softly. “You did.”

xXx

Harry’s nearly done perfecting a new type of self-sticking paper when Esther pops her head into his workroom. “Mr. Malfoy’s coming,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, is he? Great,” Harry says, getting up from his stool and making his way past a very shocked Esther and into the front of the shop.

“Eager for lunch, are you?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow, one hand resting in the pocket of his form-fitting St. Mungo’s robes. God, he looks good. He always does.

Actually…

Harry takes a quick look around the shop to make sure there aren’t any customers. Then he walks up to Draco, checking that Esther is indeed watching, and presses him into a nearby shelf, kissing him soundly.

Harry’s pleased to hear Esther’s muffled gasp.

When he pulls away, Draco looks slightly dazed. “You are eager, aren’t you?” Draco says, cheeks faintly pink.

“Yep,” Harry says, turning to the door and reflexively putting a hand to the mark on his neck. It’s still there, although covered by several Glamours, and Harry finds himself hoping that it might never fade entirely. It reminds him of Draco.

He walks to the door, looking over his shoulder at Draco, and catches a glimpse of Seb standing at the top of the stairs with an expression that mirrors Esther’s. Harry grins then, gesturing to Draco. “Coming?”

Draco follows, smirking. “Maybe later, if you’re lucky,” he mumbles for Harry’s ears only, and Harry laughs.

He pushes the door open, catching Draco’s hand as they walk outside, and he just barely catches Seb’s voice as the door closes behind them, saying, “Wow, I didn’t know Mr. Potter was gay!”

Draco snickers as they walk down Diagon. “Seems like one of your shop assistants is fairly clueless. Wasn’t it all over the Prophet when you came out?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you didn’t pay attention to my name in the Prophet?”

Spluttering, Draco glares at him. “Git. You have to know I was lying.”

“Oh?” Harry says, raising his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“I might’ve kept every article with your picture in it,” Draco admits, the edges of his lips quirking.

Harry’s heart does a silly little flutter, and he widens his eyes. “Really?” he asks. And then, “Did you wank to them?”

“What kind of question is that, Potter?” Draco asks, flushing all the way up to his ears.

“A relevant one,” Harry quips, grinning. “Well? Did you?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I might’ve once or twice. Or several times. Maybe several dozen?”

“Oh,” Harry says, and then there’s an inconvenient pulse of lust between his hips. He looks around, slowing his pace, and then pushes Draco into the nearest empty alleyway, casting a Notice-Me-Not for good measure.

“Very, very eager,” Draco says, as Harry presses their bodies together, nuzzling at Draco’s neck.

And then he feels a familiar sense of heady recklessness and he pulls away, squinting at Draco. “Hey, no fair!” he says. “Turn your Allure off.”

Draco laughs. “Fine, fine,” he says, and Harry waits for the feeling to go away before he does kiss Draco, once, twice, several times.

“Mm,” Harry sighs, closing his eyes and leaning into him.

Draco looks similarly dazed, tilting his head to nip at Harry’s ear. “Harry,” Draco says softly.

Harry shivers, a warm pulse of want flashing through his veins, and he kisses Draco again until they’re both panting. Draco still doesn’t call him by his name as much as Harry would like, but on the rare occasion he does, it feels special, like Draco telling him he loves him in not as many words.

Draco _does_ love him. Harry still hasn’t gotten over how amazing that feels.

“Still want to go to lunch?” Draco asks, jolting Harry out of his thoughts and waggling his eyebrows. “We could go to mine instead…”

Harry laughs. “Later,” he says, pulling away. “I’ve been wanting to try out the new noodle place for ages.”

“All right,” Draco says, acquiescing easily as Harry takes his hand and tugs him back into the sunlight of the late fall afternoon.

“Besides,” Harry says. “We have loads of time to fool around.”

Draco grins at that, squeezing Harry’s hand. “We do,” he says, a fond note in his tone. “And I’m looking forward to it.”

Harry presses his fingers to the bite mark again, a soft smile growing on his face. Then he snickers mischievously. “Bet I can get you off under the table at the restaurant.”

Draco’s expression turns dark. “Potter. You wouldn’t.”

Harry waggles his eyebrows, grinning. “Try me.”

“You’re utterly ridiculous,” Draco mumbles, sliding his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“But I’m yours,” Harry reminds him.

Draco smiles at that, and it hits Harry again—as it has multiple times since they’ve gotten together—just how much he loves this man.

“Yes,” Draco says, eyes fond as he looks at Harry. “And I’m yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hd-erised.livejournal.com/98268.html). ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised@livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 8th.


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